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TALES 


or 


i       DOMESTIC  LIFE.        \ 

BY  T.  S.  ARTHUR. 


'?  CONTAINING 

MADELINE,  }     THE   HEIRESS, 

MARTYR   WIFE.        \    THE    GAMESTER 


PHILADELPHIA : 

J.     W.     BRADLEY, 

48  N.  FOURTH  STREET. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1850,  by 
J.     W.     BRADLEY, 

ID  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and 
for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


PHILADELPHIA  : 
PKIKTED   BY    KINO  *   BAIRD, 

607 


L 


MADELINE ; 


0«, 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE: 


BY  T.  S.  ARTHTO. 


v.->_^^v 


A   DAUGHTER'S   LOVE 


j  "  PLEASE,  sir,  give  me  a  cent  to  buy  my  mother          ^ 

some  bread,"  said  a  little  girl,  not  over  seven  years 

J          of  age,  looking  wistfully  up  into  the  face  of  a          i> 

man  who  stood  talking  with  a  friend  in  the  street. 

The  request  of  the  child  was,  at  first,  unheeded. 
But  a  repetition  of  her  appeal,  made  in  an  earnest, 
but  peculiarly  sweet,  childish  voice,  caused  him 
to  look  down  at  the  supplicant.  The  moment  he 
saw  her  countenance,  he  took  from  his  pocket,  a 
small  silver  coin,  and  placed  it  in  her  hand.  Her 
fingers  closed  quickly  upon  it — "  Thank  you,  sir !" 
she  said,  in  the  same  sweet  voice,  and  then  turning 
away,  ran  off  at  full  speed. 

"  Do  you  treat  every  little  urchin  who  comes 
to  you  with  a  falsehood"  on  her  tongue,  after  that 
fashion "?"  asked  the  friend.  "  If  you  -'o,  I  have 
no  doubt  of  your  sixpences  having  a  free  circula- 
tion." 

"  0  no,"  was  replied.  "  I  don't  treat  all  just 
that  way.  But  I  heard  something  about  this  child,  |> 

yesterday,  that  has  given  me  an  interest  in  her." 

"  Then  you  believe  her  story  about  wanting  a 
^          cent  to  buy  her  mother  a  loaf  of  bread." 

"No — yes." 

\  5 

\ 


I  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  <; 

"A  negative  and  an  affirmative  in  the  same          ^ 
oreath.     How  is  that  ?" 

"  The  child  did  not  tell,  strictly,  the  truth ;  and 
yet,  she  is  innocent  of  a  direct  falsehood.  She 
\  made  her  petition  as  she  heard  others  make  theirs. 
To  her  it  was  only  a  form  of  words,  not  a  delibe- 
rately chosen  untruth.  In  fact,  she  did  not  know  <j 
what  else  to  say." 

"  Then  she  has  not  a  mother  in  want  of  bread  V9 
•>  "  No — but,  I  am  told  that  she  begs  for  a  sick 

!>          sister." 

"Indeed!" 

"  Yes.  And  the  history  of  that  poor  sister  is  a 
deeply  touching  one." 

"  You  know  it,  then." 

"  It  was  related  to  me  by  a  friend,  who  says 
that  her  family  once  moved  in  the  first  circle  in 
our  city. 

"  Indeed !  and  now  reduced  so  low  1" 

*****  '? 

About  ten  years  ago,  there  lived  in  the  city  of 

P ,  a  merchant  named  Cameron,  engaged  in 

the  East  India  trade.     In  the  prosecution  of  this 
trade  he  had  become  rich.     He  had  several  chil-         \ 
dren — both  sons   and  daughters.     The  oldest,  a 
daughter,  named  Madeline,  was,  at  the  time  men- 
tioned, not  over  fourteen  years  of  age.     She  was 
mild  and  gentle  in  disposition,  graceful  in  person, 
and  had  a  face  of  more  than  ordinary  beauty. 
Her  health  had  been  delicate  from  a  child,  and 
this  circumstance  had  endeared  her  much  to  her          i 
parents.     Her  father  loved  her  from  this  cause, 


more  deeply  than  he  loved  any  of  the  rest,  who 
were  more  robust,  an  1,  therefore,  drew  less  upon 


A.  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  7 

the  tenderer  sympathies  of  the  heart.   They  li\ed 

in  a  large  and  beautiful  house  on  C street, 

which   had  a  fine   garden  attached,  where  the 
choicest  flowers  gave  peifume  to  the  summer  airs. 

;!  All  around  them  were  clustered  the  comforts  and 
elegancies  of  life.  No  want  that  money  could 
procure  was  known— no  wish  remained  ungrati- 
tied.  Too  often  it  is  the  case  that  men  who  grow 
rich  have  moral  defects  that  destroy  the  happiness 

(  of  tffeir  families.  Eager  in  the  pursuit  of  wealth, 
money  becomes  the  God  they  worship,  and  at  the 
shrine  of  this  Moloch  they  sacrifice  all  the  gentle, 
sweet,  tender  charities  of  the  heart.  But  Mr. 
Cameron  was  not  such  a  man.  He  had  an  active, 
orderly  mind,  that  was  discriminating  and  intelli-  <j 

gent.  He  had  also,  natural  goodness  of  heart — 
the  ground-work  of  many  virtues.  When  busi- 
ness required  his  attention,  he  gave  up  his  mind 
earnestly  to  its  claims ;  but  when  the  thought  and  |j 
care  of  the  day  ought  naturally  to  cease,  they  did 
cease  with  him,  and  left  him  free  to  enjoy  the 
pleasant  sphere  of  home. 

I;  Such  a  man  blesses  his  household.     As  he  ought 

to  have  been,  Mr.  Cameron  was  loved  tenderly  by 

<",         his  wife  and  children,  who  looked  up  to  him  with 

the  confidence  that  innocence  reposes  in  wisdom. 

"  You  go  to  Mr.  Russell's  to-night,  I  suppose," 

Mrs.  Cameron  said  to  her  husband,  one  day,  while 

!>          they  sat  at  the  table  after  dinner. 

"0   yes.     I  must  make  one   of  the   pleasant 

lf         company  that  is  to  assemble  there.     But  I  wish 

the  Russells  had  made  a  party  of  it  at  once,  and  'f 

invited  our  wives  also.     I  never  more  than  half 
enjoy  myself,  unless  you  are  with  me.     But,  as 


S  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

the  entertainment  is  for  the  sake  of  Mr.  S ,  I 

suppose  it  is  all  right.     I  will  try  and  think  so,  at 

any  rate."  |j 

"  Certainly  you  must.  Don't  let  a  thought  of 
my  absence  take  from  your  sum  of  enioyment  a 
single  unit."  ;> 

"  I  cannot  promise  all  that.  But  no  doubt,  i 
shall  have  a  pleasant  time  enough.  Russell  is  a  fine 
fellow  to  entertain  company ;  and,  as  Mr.  S-^ — 
is  a  man  of  some  distinction,  he  will,  I  know,  do 
his  best." 

A  select  number  of  wealthy,  intelligent,  and 
well  educated  men  assembled  on  that  evening,  at 
the  house  of  the  person  just  named.  Mr.  Cameron 
made  one  of  the  number.  Several  hours  were  ^ 
passed  in  animated  conversation,  and  a  splendid 
supper  was  served.  Everything  to  gratify  the 
appetite  was  prepared.  Wines  of  every  approved 
kind  sparkled  on  the  table,  with  stronger  liquors 
in  abundance. 

We  Americans  are  fond  of  the  good  things  of 
life,  and  never  hold  back  when  the  palate  is 
tempted.  If  we  desire  to  entertain  a  visiter,  be 
he  in  the  business,  literary,  or  political  world,  we 
spread  before  him,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the 
choicest  viands  we  can  obtain,  and  invite  our 
"riends  to  eat  with  him.  The  feast  of  reason  and 
he  flow  of  soul,  generally  end  in  a  feast  of  oys- 
ters and  a  flow  of  wine. 

On  the  occasion  referred  to,  the  merchant  for- 
got his  schemes  of  profit,  the  man  of  science  his 
darling  theories,  the  lawyer  his  brief,  and  the 
physician  his  patient.  All  became  absorbed  in 
one  pleasant  idea, — all  engaged  in  the  same  ear- 


A   DAUGHTERS   LOVE.  9 

nest  pursuit — that  of  appropriating  the  rich  and 
tempting  provisions  so  abundantly  spread  out  be- 
fore  them.     After  they  had   eaten  until  nearly 
;!         surfeited,  and  drank  quite  liberally,  the  table  was 
cleared,  except  of  the  wine ;  and  cigars  introduced, 
jl         Mr.  Cameron  was  a  general  favourite,  and  from  this  ^ 

cause,  he  was  led  on  to  drink  very  freely — almost  J 

every  one  present,  at  some  time  during  the  eve-  \ 

|        ning>  asking  him  to  take  a  glass  of  wine.     Before 

he  dreamed  of  danger,  he  had  drank  so  much  that  \> 

his  mind  was  confused.  This  was  perceived  by 
others,  and  felt  by  himself,  though  others  saw  the 
effect  more  clearly  than  he  felt  it.  He  was  con-  > 

scious  that  his  mind  did  not  act  with  its  accus- 
tomed clearness ;  but  he  w?s  satisfied  that  no  one 
present  had  the  least  suspicion  of  the  truth. 

"  Permit  me  to  take  a  glass  of  wine  with  you, 
Mr.  Cameron,"  still  continued  to  reach  his  ear, 
and  the  invitation  was  always  accepted,  and  his 
glass  drained. 

S  The  result  was,  that  by  the  time  the  company 

\  separated,  that  excellent  man  was  so  much  intoxi- 
\  cated  that  he  had  to  be  supported  home  by  a  couple 
of  friends,  who  were  not  in  a  much  better  condition 
than  himself.  Seating  him  upon  the  door-step,  they 
rung  the  bell  violently,  and  then  hurried  away. 
It  was  between  one  and  two  o'clock.  Mrs.  Came- 
ron was  the  only  one  not  in  bed.  She  had  been 
sitting  up,  awaiting  the  return  of  her  husband. 
Startled  by  the  loud  sound  of  the  bell,  she  opened 
the  window  and  looked  down.  It  was  clear 
moonlight,  and  she  could  distinctly  perceive  that 
the  man  sitting  on  the  marble  steps  that  led  up 
to  the  hall  door  was  her  husband.  The  sight 


10  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

thrilled  her  with  a  sudden  alarm.  What  could  it 
mean? 

Hurriedly  descending,  she  opened  the  door,  a 
suspicion  of  the  real  truth  flashing  over  her  mind 
at  the  moment  she  did  so,  and  causing  her  heart 
to  suspend,  momentarily,  its  pulsations. 

"  Mr.  Cameron !"  she  said,  in  a  husky  voice, 
stooping  down,  and  placing  her  hand  upon  his 
shoulder. 

A  half-intelligent  murmur,  or  rather  grunt,  for 
the  sound  cannot  be  designated  by  any  more  re- 


fined expression,  was  the  only  response  made  by 


;>  the  stupified  husband. 

"  Come  —  come  into  the  house,  Mr.  Cameron," 

the  wife  said,  taking  hold  of  his  arm,  and  endea- 
;;  vouring  to  assist  him  to  get  upon  his  feet.     But 

he  did  not  meet  this  effort   by  a   corresponding 

attempt  to  rise.     He  did  not,  in  fact,  seem  to  per- 

ceive it. 


"  Dreadful  !"  was  the  low  ejaculation  of  Mrs. 
Cameron,  as  a  quick  shudder  thrilled  through  her 
frame. 

With  more  than  mere  human  strength,  she  then, 
stooping  over  him,  and  drawing  her  hands  under 
his  arms,  lifted  him  up  so  that  he  could  stand  upon 
his  feet.  Supporting  him  in  this  way,  she  sue- 
ceeded  in  getting  him  into  the  house,  and  up  stairs 
to  their  chamber,  when  he  sank  down,  perfectly 
unconscious,  upon  a  bed.  As  he  did  so,  Mrs. 
Cameron  dropped  into  a  chair,  weak  as  an  infant. 
Full  five  minutes  passed  before  she  moved.  The 
loud  snoring  of  her  stupified  husband  called  back 
thought,  feeling,  and  activity.  She  got  up, 
slowly,  and  with  something  mechanical  in  her 


,"v^-«/\^ 

A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  11 

movement, — stood  for  some  minutes  gazing  upon 
the  senseless  form  of  the  one  she  most  loved  and 
honoured  in  the  world,  and  then  covering  her 
face  \vith  her  hands,  wept  and  sobbed  violently 
for  a  long  time.  Nature,  at  length  exhausted, 
sunk  into  a  deep  calm.  Tears  ceased  to  flow ;  her 
sobs  came  less  and  less  frequently,  like  the  brief 
sighs  of  a  departing  storm. 

Quietly,  now,  but  with  a  sad,  yea,  solemn  face, 

(,         the  wife  commenced  removing  her  husband's  gar- 

l  ments,  he  regaining  perfectly  unconscious.  After 
she  had  placed  him  beneath  the  bed  clothes,  she 
sat  down  besme  him,  in  a  large  chair,  and  burying  j> 

I  her  face  in  Suir  hands,  spent  two  hours  in  deep 
abstraction  of  mind — two  hours,  the  most  painful 
ever  spent  by  her  in  her  whole  life.  After  this, 
her  thoughts  became  indistinct — confused,  and 

£  ever-changing  images  floated  before  her  mind — 
external  objects  were  no  longer  perceived,  her 
troubled  spirit  was  at  rest. 

It  was  daylight  when  Mrs.  Cameron   awoke. 
She  started  up  quickly,  the  occurrences   of  the          ^ 
last  night  seeming  to  her  like  a  dream.     But  ,the          j; 
garments  of  her  husband  thrown  without   order 

nnr\n   tJia  flnnr  •   Vile  Irmrl     VionvTr  onnrinrr  •     Vipr  r>\im  '> 


upon  the  floor ;  his  loud,  heavy  snoring ;  her  own 


condition — attested  too  painfully  the  sad,  heart-  ^ 
sickening  truth.  He,  whom  she  loved  so  do 
votedly ;  he,  the  honoured  father  of  her  children ; 
he,  of  whom  all  men  spoke  with  respect  or  esteem, 
£  had  suffered  his  name  to  be  tarnished.  Among 
gentlemen,  he  had  descended  to  the  level  of  the 
drunkard,  and  had  been  brought  home  by  servants, 
or  watchmen,  for  aught  she  knew,  and  left  in  dis- 
grace, at  his  own  door.  A  high-minded  and  sen- 

1 


JT%_P^^.-V-I 


12  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

sitive  woman,  such  thoughts  made  her  shuddei 
from  head  to  foot. 

It  was  past  noon  before  Mr.  Cameron  awoke; 

his  head  aching  and  confused,  and  his  thoughts 

indistinct.    No  one  was  in  the  room  with  him.  It 

<;          took  him  nearly  ten  minutes  to  collect  his  ideas 

sufficiently  to  have  anything  like  a  clear  under-          ;! 
standing  of  his  condition.      When  the  fact  did 
become  apparent,  deep  shame  took  hold  of  him. 
Mrs.  Cameron  came  in.     Gloomily  he  turned  his 
face  from  her,  and  scarcely  replied  to  her  tenderly-          ^ 
asked  questions.     A  cup  of  coffee  was  brought  to 
him.   He  drank  it,  and  then  getting  up,  he  dressed 
ff          himself  in  silence,  and  leaving  the  house,  went  to         \ 
his  store. 

This  occurrence  deeply  mortified  him.     It  was 
weeks  before  he  was,  even  at  home,  the  same 
t          cheerful  man  he  was  before. 

Time  passed  on.    The  suddenly-awakened  fears 
of  Mrs.  Cameron  made  her  more  observant  of  her 
<!          husband,  and  this  observation  revealed  the  startling         <; 
fact,  that  he  was  gradually  increasing  the  quantity 
of  wine  usually  taken  at  dinner  time;   and  he 
rarely  went  to  bed  without  a  bottle,  a  thing  of         jj 
rare  occurrence  a  few  years  before.  J 

We  will  not  trace  Mr.  Cameron's  gradual  de- 
bcension  irom  sobriety. 

That  would  give  but  little  additional  force  to 
the  lessons  we  wish  to  convey.  It  is  sufficient 
that  he  became  enslaved  to  a  fatal  appetite  for 
drink,  and  slowly  but  surely  passed  downward. 

At  the  end  of  five  years,  to  the  astonishment 
of  every  one,  he  failed  in  business ;  and  when  hit 
assets  were  examined,  they  were  found  insufficient 


6-^-^V^Nj^.^ 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  13 

to  meet  all  of  his  heavy  liabilities.  A  few  months 
subsequent  to  this  event,  a  malignant  fever,  that 
prevailed  very  generally,  released  Mrs.  Cameron 
from  a  life  of  suffering,  and  took  with  her  three 
of  her  children,  leaving  only  Madeline  and  their 
youngest  child,  a  little  girl  between  two  and  three 
years  of  age. 

Madeline's  health  did  not  improve  as  she  grew 
older.     She  was  now  nineteen  years  of  age,  but 

^  was  too  much  of  an  invalid  to  go  out,  except  in 
very  fine  weather,  and  then  she  could  ride  only 
for  a  short  distance.  The  loss  of  her  father's  pro- 

ff  perty,  and  the  departure  with  it,  of  the  many 
luxuries  and  comforts  they  had  enjoyed,  took  from 
her  even  this  means  of  healthful  recreation.  Their 
family  carriage  went  with  the  rest  of  Mr.  Came- 
ron's effects. 

The  sudden  death  of  her  mother,  with  two 
brothers  and  a  sister,  broke  down  the  spirit  of 
Madeline.  The  deep  infatuation  of  her  father, 
which  even  all  the  jealous  care  of  Mrs.  Cameron 
could  not  conceal,  had  already  saddened  her  young  £ 
heart,  and  caused  her  to  think  of  him  with  pain, 
mortification  and  anxiety.  Her  health,  while  it 
had  not  improved  for  two  or  three  years,  did  not. 
visibly  decline.  But  very  soon  after  her  mother's 
death,  Madeline  began  to  sink.  Her  affliction  was 
that  fatal  and  incurable  one,  consumption,  and  its 
progress  had  been  silent,  but  certain,  ever  since 
a  severe  cold  in  childhood,  had  quickened  into 
life  the  latent  seeds  of  this  disease,  sown  heredita- 
rily in  her  constitution. 

When  partially  sober,  Mr.  Cameron  perceived 
the  condition  of  his  child,  whom  he  loved  only 
2 


r 


14  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

less  than  himself,  and  it  half  maddened  him,  for 
£  %e  saw  that  she  was  suffering  ten-fold  on  account 

of  his  infatuation,  that  had  reduced  h?r  to  a  con- 
dition in  which  she  had  but  few  external  com- 
forts. 

After  Mr.  Cameron's  failure,  he  got  a  situation 
as  clerk  in  a  mercantile  house,  at  a  salary  of  seven 
hundred  dollars  a  year.  This  would  have  secured 
to  his  family,  now  so  much  reduced  by  death,  at 
least  the  necessaries,  and  many  of  the  comforts  of 
life,  if  he  could  have  given  up  his  selfish,  sensual 
indulgence.  But  he  had  not  strength  enough  to 
do  this.  He  had  pushed  out  thoughtlessly,  into  a 
strong,  rushing  current,  that  was  swiftly  bearing 
<!  him  on  to  destruction.  ^ 

He  did  not  retain  his  situation  more  than  seven 
or  eight  months.  By  that  time  he  neglected  his 
business  so  much,  and  came  to  the  store  in  a  state 
of  intoxication  so  often,  that  he  was  discharged. 
At  the  time  this  took  place,  he  had  not  over  ten 
dollars  ahead.  He  was  living  in  a  small  house, 
at  the  northern  extremity  of  the  city,  at  a  rent  of  <; 
one  hundred  and  thirty  dollars  a  year  ;  and  kept 
a  single  servant,  who  was  a  doer  of  all  work. 
Madeline  rarely  left  her  room,  except  at  meal 
times,  and  then  she  always  forced  herself  to  be 
present  at  the  table  on  her  father's  account.  Alas  ! 
he  was  most  of  his  time  in  such  a  condition  as  to 


be  utterly  unable  to  reciprocate  the  pure  love  she 
bore  him. 

On  receiving,  unexpectedly,  his  discharge,  Mr. 
Cameron  returned  home,  a  soberer  man  than  he 
had  been  for  a  long  time.  A  scanty  provision  for 
his  family,  had  satisfied  the  demands  of  natural 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

affections ;  but  now  the  means  of  doing  even  this 
were  cut  off.  Madeline  had  come  down  from  her  jj 

room,  and  was  sitting  in  their  little  parlour  when 
her  father  came  in.  She  saw  that  he  looked  dis- 
turbed ;  and  she  also  saw  that  he  was  not  so  much 
under  the  influence  of  drink  as  usual. 

The  sight  of  his  pale,  suffering  child,  and  the 
instant  reflection  that  he  was  cut  off  from  the 
'  means  of  affording  her  even  the  few  comforts  she 
now  had,  wrung  his  heart.  He  could  not  bear  to 
speak  to  her — to  look  at  her  sweet,  patient  face, 
—he  feared  to  hear  the  sound  of  her  voice.  $ 

"  Father,"  she  said,  as  he  glanced  towards  her, 
on  entering. 

Turning  away  quickly,  Mr.  Cameron  left  the 
house.  He  could  not,  even  while  but  half-sobered, 
breathe  the  same  air  with  his  wronged  child.  It 
seemed  as  if  it  would  suffocate  him.  Madeline  ^ 

called  after  him,  but  the  sound  of  her  voice  only 
made  him  the  more  anxious  to  escape  from  her 
presence.  But  where  could  he  go  ?  Alas !  when 
the  poor  inebriate  seeks  to  flee  from  the  rebuking 
;•  presence  of  those  he  has  wronged  most  grievously, 
and  at  the  same  time  from  himself,  he  sees  no 
place  of  refuge  but  one, — and  there  his  refuge  is 
oblivion ;  oblivion  found  in  the  cup  that  steals 
away  both  thought  and  memory. 

Mr.  Cameron  went  from  his  own  house  to  a  § 

tavern  near  by,  and  there  drank  until  he  was  in- 
sensible. When  he  went  in,  there  was  a  ten  doi- 
lar  bill  in  his  pocket-book.  He  was  thrust  out  of 
the  tavern  at  twelve  o'clock  that  night,  while  yet 
too  mu:h  intoxicated  to  stand  alone.  There  was 
nothing  in  his  pocket-book  on  the  next  morning, 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

when  he  found  himself  sober  and  an  inmate  of  the 
watch-house.  Before  the  tavern-keeper  turned 
him  out  into  the  street,  he  rifled  the  drunken  man's 
pockets.  There  was  no  evidence  of  this  fact. 
Cameron  could  not  tell  whether  his  money  had 
been  taken  from  him  in  the  tavern,  or  while  he 
lay  in  the  street.  He  only  knew  that  it  was 
gone.  > 

Half-maddened  by  the  discovery  that  his  little 
all  was  gone,  the  poor  man  wandered  about  the  ;> 
streets  for  several  hours,  enduring  the  pangs  of  a 
most  intolerable  thirst,  that  he  had  not  the  means 
of  satisfying.  At  length  he  turned  his  steps 
homeward. 


After  her  father  had  gone  out,  on  the  preceding 
day,  Madeline  sat  awaiting  his  return  with  a  feel- 
ing of  the  most  intense  anxiety.  There  had 
seemed  to  her  eyes,  something  wild  and  strange  in 
the  expression  of  his  face,  as  he  came  in  at  an  un- 
usual hour,  and  after  looking  at  her  for  a  moment 
or  two,  turned  away  abruptly  and  left  the  house. 
Her  heart  throbbed  heavily  for  a  long  time  after- 
wards, and  then  her  pulse  grew  low,  and  she  be-  £ 
came  so  faint,  that  she  had  to  go  up  into  her 
chamber  and  lie  down.  The  few  hours  that  re- 
^  mained  until  nightfall  soon  passed  away.  Dark- 

ness fell  upon  the  earth — the  usual  time  for  her 
father  to  return  rolled  round,  but  he  came  not. 
Again  the  daughter's  heart  began  to  throb  wildly.  s' 
But  her  anxiety  availed  not.  He,  for  whom  she 
felt  such  intense  concern,  did  not  return.  Time 
Biassed  on,  until  the  hoarse  cry  of  the  watchman  >> 
announced  the  hour  of  ten.  But  her  father  was 
absent  still.  Where  could  he  be  ?  What  new 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  17 


calamity  awaited  the  already  deeply  stricken 
child  ?  Eleven,  twelve,  one,  two,  three  o'cl  ick 
came  and  went,  and  still  the  eyelids  of  Madeline 
closed  not,  although  her  head  pressed  heavily 
upon  her  pillow,  for  she  had  become  too  weak 

^          and  faint  to  sit  up. 

When  day  dawned,  she  arose  from  the  bed  and 
took  a  seat  near  the  window.  It  had  been  to  her 
a  night  of  terrible  anxiety  ;  and  now,  she  could 
just  bear  up,  in  the  calm,  renovating  morning,  with 
a  tremulous  fear  in  her  heart,  and  await  with  a  yet 
feeble  hope,  the  return  of  one  who  was  loved  by 
her  with  a  love  that  nothing  could  weaken  or 
efface.  From  childhood  up,  he  had  been  to  her 
the  tenderest  of  fathers.  She  had  not  only  loved 
him  for  his  goodness,  but  had  honoured  him  for  his 
intelligence,  uprightness,  and  manly  force  of 
character.  In  her  eyes,  he  had  been  perfect 
When  evidences  of  his  horrible  infatuation  first 
became  distinct  to  her  eyes, — when  she  saw  him, 
for  the  first  time,  changed  and  fallen,  Oh !  it 

;>          seemed  to  her  as  if  madness  would  follow. 

The  day  never  afterwards  dawned  for  her  with 
so  cheerful  a  light.  Spring  came  with  its  bright 
flowers,  and  sweet  perfume  to  gladden  her  droop- 
ing spirits;  and  they  did  gladden,  but  not  as  ^ 
before.  She  would  look  with  delight  upon  bud 
and  blossom,  and  drink  in  their  delicious  odours  ; 
but,  in  a  little  while  neither  sense  perceived 
the  grateful  offering  of  the  glad  young  season. 
Her  thoughts  had  wandered  off  to  her  father. 
After  her  mother's  death,  she  felt,  that,  feeble  as 
she  was,  and  fast  wasting  away,  she  had  a  sacred 


duty  to  perform.     She  must  now  care  for  her  in- 


L 


IQ  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

fatuated  parent  as  her  mother  had  cared  for  him, 
She  must  keep  down  paralyzing  grief,  and  daily 
strive  to  render  his  lot  less  dreadful  than  his  own 
conduct  would,  if  all  its  effects  were  suffered  to 
visit  him,  render  it.  And  she  did  strive  with  a 
noble  self-devotion.  When  he  came  home,  she 
always  endeavoured  to  meet  him  with  a  cheerful 
smile.  Feeble  though  she  was,  and  severe  as  the 
task  proved,  she  would  strive  to  make  home  plea- 
sant to  him  in  every  possible  way ;  as,  by  singing 
old  airs  that  she  knew  he  had  loved  in  former 
years,  while  she  accompanied  herself  on  her 
guitar,  the  only  one  of  her  instruments  of  music 
that  had  been  spared  in  the  general  wreck ;  or  by 
reading,  until  her  lungs  became  so  oppressed  that 
she  had  to  lay  aside  her  book,  some  volume  that 
she  knew  had  been  to  him  a  pleasant  one. 
!>  And  her  reward  for  this — what  was  it !  She 

\  never  knew  that  her  earnest  efforts  had  the  desired 

effect.  No  pleasure  was  expressed  at  her  songs  ; 
no  interest  manifested  when  she  read  to  the  always 
half-stupified  inebriate.  Ah !  hers  was  a  hard 
task  to  perform — her  trials  hard  to  bear.  But, 
with  a  love  that  nothing  could  abate,  she  inter- 
mitted not  her  efforts.  She  did  not  hope  to  change  ; 
she  strove  only  to  alleviate, — to  make  her  father's 
lot  less  deplorable.  Unhappy  she  knew  he  must 
\  be.  _ 

Since  their  removal  into  the  small  house  where 
they  now  lived,  Mr.  Cameron  had  provided  very 
poorly  for  his  family.  While  Mrs.  Cameron 
lived,  she  obtained  from  him  a  large  proportion 
of  what  he  earned  ;  but  after  her  death,  he  as- 
sumed tt  e  task  of  making  regular  provision  fo» 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  19 

the  wants  of  his  household.  At  first  he  provided 
tolerably  well,  but  gradually  fell  off,  until  it  often 
happened  that  Madeline  found  herself  in  want  of 
almost  necessary  food  to  have  prepared  for  their 
regular  meals.  She  would  then  be  compelled  to 
ask  her  father  for  the  needed  supplies.  But, 
whenever  she  did  so,  it  seemed  to  half  offend  him, 
so  that  at  last,  she  dreaded  to  call  upon  him  for 

]  anything,  and  suffered  many  privations,  rather 
than  apply  to  him  for  money. 

At  Jhe  time  of  his  discharge  from  the  situation 

^          he  had  obtained,  as  mentioned  above,  he  had  neg- 

ff  lected  providing  for  his  family  to  such  a  degree, 
that  there  was  scarcely  enough  food  in  the  house 
for  another  meal'.  He  knew  this,  and  that  was 

j>  what  pressed  so  heavily  upon  him,  when  he  be- 
came partially  sobered,  in  consequence  of  so  un- 
expectedly losing  his  situation.  He  had  not  the 
confidence  nor  the  strength  of  mind  to  make  some 
new  exertion,  but  rushed  to  the  cup  of  confusion, 
in  which  to  drown  all  self-reproaches,  and  all 
anguish  at  the  thought  of  his  destitute  family. 
How  much  better  that  relieved  his  condition  has 
been  seen. 

Pale,  anxious,  and  trembling  inwardly,  Made- 
line sat  looking  from  the  window,  shortly  after 
daylight,  on  the  morning  that  her  father  was  dis- 
charged from  custody  by  the  Mayor,  who  dismissed 
him  with  a  few  words  of  admonition.  She  had 
not  been  there  long,  before  a  slow  moving  figure 
far  down  the  street  caught  her  eye.  She  leaned 
forward  eagerly.  It  was  her  father !  His  steps 
were  slow,  and  every  now  and  then  he  would  stop, 
and  appear  as  if  he  had  lost  something.  Then  he 


20  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

would  move  on  again,  and  again  pause,  and  seem 
to  be  searching  in  all  his  pockets.  At  length  he 
drew  near  to  the  house,  and  then  Madeline  could 
see  that  his  clothes  were  soiled  and  in  disorder. 
Her  heart  grew  sick,  and  she  leaned,  faint,  against 
the  window-sill.  When  he  was  nearly  at  the 
door,  she  arose  and  went  down  stairs  as  quickly  as 
possible  and  withdrew  the  fastenings,  and  then  re- 
turned to  her  own  chamber.  In  a  minute  after 
she  heard  her  father  enter,  and  go  up  to  his  own 
room.  A  deeply-drawn  sigh,  or  rather  groan, 
reached  the  ear  of  his  daughter,  as  Mr.  Cameron 
closed  his  chamber  door  after  him,  and  threw  him- 
self, in  an  agony  of  mind,  upon  his  bed. 

Madeline  bowed  her  head  and  wept  bitterly. 
She  knew  that  groan  was  extorted  by  anguish  of 
spirit,  not  by  bodily  suffering ;  and  that  the  former 
was  not  to  be  compared  with  the  latter,  her  expe- 
rience too  fully  testified. 

Faint  and  sick  from  excitement,  Madeline,  so 
soon  as  her  father  had  entered  his  chamber,  was 
forced  to  lie  down.  She  felt  as  weak  as  an  infant. 
For  a  greater  part  of  the  night  she  had  sat  up  or 
lain  awake  in  a  state  of  the  keenest  anxiety  about 
him.  He  had  at  last  arrived.  Where  had  he  been, 
she  knew  not ;  and  dared  scarcely  guess.  But  he  ;> 
was  unhappy:  —  there  was  anguish  of  spirit —  ; 
bitter  anguish — in  the  groan  that  had  been  extor- 
ted from  him,  as  he  threw  himself  upon  his  bed. 
The  sound  echoed  and  re-echoed  in  her  heart, 
seoming  as  if  it  would  never  die  away. 

In  about  half  an  hour,  though  still  feeling  faint, 
Madeline  got  up,  and  dressed  her  little  sister  Agnes, 
who  had  a\f  akened.  Agnes  was  in  her  fifth  year. 


f  I 

%  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVF.  21 

She  had  a  sweet  face,  and  as  sweet  a  temper. 
Madeline  loved  her  with  a  sisters  purest  love,  and 
Agnes  gave  back  affection  in  a  full  measure.  s 

While  she  was  dressing  Agnes,  their  domestic 
came  to  the  door,  and  said — 

"  We  have  no  sugar  for  the  coffee,  this  morning  • 
and  no  butter." 

"  Very  well,  Hetty,  I  '11  see  about  it." 

"Breakfast  is   all   ready,  but    the   sugar   and 
butter." 

"  You  needn't  ring  the  bell  for  a  little  while 
yet.     I  don't  want  father  disturbed." 

The  servant  retired.      Madeline  finished  dress-          !j 
ing  her  little  sister,  and  waited  for  nearly  half  an 
hour  longer.     But  there  was  no  movement  in  her          <I 
|         father's  room. 

"  Go  down  to  Hetty,  and  tell  her  to  ring  the 
j;          breakfast  bell,"  she  said  to  Agnes. 

The  child  went  down  and  did  as  Madeline  had 
?          desired  her ;  but  came  up  in  a  few  moments  with 
a  message  from  Hetty  that  there  was  neither  butter 
nor  sugar  for  breakfast. 

"  I  know  that,  dear ;  you  go  again  and  tell  her          <| 
that  I  want  her  to  ring  the  breakfast  bell." 

Agnes  went  to  the  kitchen  again,  and  presently 
the  bell  was  rung.     As  the  sound  passed  through          <! 
\          the  house,  Mr.  Cameron  started  up  from  the  bed 
*<  where  he  had  thrown  himself,  and  uttered  a  deep 

sigh,  that  reached  the  attentive  ear  of  his  daughter. 
\  In  a  little  while  he  came  out  of  his  room,  and          ;j 

went  down  stairs.  Madeline  followed  quickly, 
and  they  met  once  more  in  the  breakfast  room. 

Mr.  Cameron's  eyes  fell  under  the  earnest  look 
of  inquiry  that  Madeline  cast  upon  him.     But'  no 


22  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

words  were  spoken,  as  they  seated  themselves  at 
the  table,  upon  which  was  bread  and  some  cold 
meat,  but  no  butter. 

"  There  is  no  sugar  nor  butter  for  breakfast," 
said  the  officious  domestic  at  this  moment.  !j 

!;  Mr.    Cameron    started    and    looked    confused. 

Madeline  turned  her  eyes  upon  him.  He  put  his 
hand  in  his  pocket. 

"  I  have  no  change,"  he  half  muttered. 
"  It  is  no-matter,  we  can  do  without  butter  for 
this   meal,"  quickly   interposed   Madeline.      "  I 
never  use  sugar  at  all,  myself." 

"  Here   is    the   milkman's   bill,"   said   Hetty, 
5          coming  in  a  few  moments  afterwards.     "  I  like  to          I; 
forgot  it.     He  says  he  wants  the  money  left  out 
for  him  to-morrow  morning." 
^  This  was  received  in  perfect  silence,  and  Hetty 

retired.     Both  Madeline  and  her  father  tried  to         |j 
eat,  but  it  was  only  by  an  effort  that  either  of  them 
5          could  swallow  a  mouthful. 

|  Not  half  his  usual  time  of  sitting  at  the  table  had 

expired,  before  Mr.  Cameron  pushed  back  his  chair 
?          and  got  up. 

<  "  Won't  you  have  another  cup  of  tea,  father  ?" 

asked  Madeline. 

He  did  not  reply,  but  left  the  room  and  went 
I          up  to  his  chamber,  where  he   remained   all   the 
morning.      About   ten   o'clock  Hetty    came    to 
Madeline. 

"  There  is  nothing  in  the  house  for  dinner." 
«  Very  well,  Hetty,  I  will  see  about  it." 
She  waited  for  an  hour,  but  her  father  did  not 
make  his  appearance.     Hetty  again  came  up  stairs. 
"It  is  getting  late,  miss.     If  the  meat   and 


^-.^"•^•v^ 

A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  23 

things  don't  come  soon,  I  can't  get  dinner  ready  in 
time." 

"  Don't  be  uneasy,  Hetty.  If  the  dinner  should 
be  late,  no  one  will  blame  you.  I  don't  think 
father  is  very  well,  and  I  don't  like  to  disturb  him." 

It  just  then  flashed  across  her  mind  thut  her 
father  was  staying  from  his  business.  Was  he  too 
sick  to  go  out,  or  had  he  left  his  situation  1  If  the  5 

latter,  why  was  it  ?  Had  he  been  discharged  ? 
And  was  he  now  out  of  employment,  and  with  no 
means  of  supporting  his  family  ?  { 

Such  thoughts  startled  the  heart  of  Madeline, 
and  filled  her  with  a  new  anxiety.     After  delibe- 
rating for  some  time,  she  went  to  her  father's  room 
>,         and  tapped  at  the  door.     There  was  no  answer. 
She  tapped  again. 

"  Come  in,"  she  heard,  uttered  in  a  low  voice. 

She  slowly  opened  the  door.  Her  father  was 
sitting  nearly  opposite,  with  a  contracted  brow, 
and  a  wild,  uneasy  look.  After  hesitating  a  mo- 
ment, Madeline  said — 

"  We  have  nothing  in  the  house  for  dinner,          ; 
to-day." 

"  Buy  something,  then,"  was  the  reply,  pettishly 
made. 

"  I  have  no  money,  father." 

"  Neither  have  I.     Humph !" 

Madeline  had  never  heard  him  speak  in  such  a 
strange  tone,  nor  look  so  wildly  as  he  did. 

"What  is  the  matter?  Are  you  not  well, 
father  ?"  She  asked,  advancing  a  few  steps  toward 
Uim. 

"Well?  Oh  yes!     But  go  out,  child.    I  don't 

t%^^V%^X 


24  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

care  about  any  dinner  to-day.  Pick  up  something 
for  yourselves.  I  am  too  unwell  to  eat." 

"  But  can't  I  do  something  for  you,  if  you  are 
>f  kick?" 

"  No.  I  shall  be  well  again  after  a  little  while. 
Only  let  me  be  quiet  now,  that  is  a  good  child." 
\  Both  the  words  and  manner  of  her  father  were 

strange  and  unaccountable  to  Madeline.  She  went 
out  of  the  room  as  he  wished ;  but  there  was  a 
weight  upon  her  heart. 

After  he  was  left  alone,  Mr.  Cameron  became 
very  uneasy.  He  arose  to  his  feet,  and  walked 
the  floor  several  minutes,  every  now  and  then  «; 
stopping  as  if  in  deep  thought.  At  last  he  went 
to  a  drawer,  and  opening  it,  began  to  look  over 
its  contents.  There  was  in  it,  a  small  box  con- 
taining many  little  articles  once  belonging  to  his 
wife,  such  as  rings  and  breastpins,  a  bracelet  and 
a  locket,  etc.  In  looking  through  the  drawer,  <; 
Mr.  Cameron  passed  by  this  box  several  times.  At 
length  he  took  it  up,  and  held  it  for  some  mo- 
ments. Then  turning  th^  ke)  he  lifted  the  lid, 
and  looked  steadily  in  at  the  contents.  A  ring 
was  first  taken  up — it  was  his  wedding  ring.  It 
dropped  from  his  finger  as  if  just  taken  from  the 
fire.  Then  a  locket  was  examined  ;  he  knew  that, 
also,  too  well :  it  contained  the  hair  of  his  wife 
and  mother.  The  wretched  man  uttered  a  feeble 
groan  as  that  also  dropped  from  his  fingers ;  closing 
the  lid  of  the  box,  he  leaned  his  head  down  upon 
the  bureau  at  which  he  was  standing,  while  a  cold, 
shuddering  chill,  went  through  his  frame. 

"  Good  heavens  !     Has  it  come  to  this  !•"  be  at 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  25 

length  exclaimed,  in  a  low  voice,  starting  off  and 
beginning  to  pace  the  floor  hurriedly. 

In  a  little  while  the  poor  man's  agitation  mn;- 
surably  abated.  He  was  suffering  most  intolerable 
anguish  for  want  of  his  accustomed  stimulus.  His 

>  nerves  were  all  quivering ;  he  was  on  the  very 
verge  of  temporary  insanity.  i> 

"  No— no— no — I  cannot,  I   must  not  endur 
|          this  ;  I  shall  go  beside  myself !"  he  said  half  so 

lemnly,  pausing,  and  looking  toward  the  bureau  4 

"  Something   must  be   done !     My  children  will  ^ 

starve,  and  I  shall  go  mad." 

Striding,  then,  resolutely  back  to  the  still  open 
drawer,  he  lifted  the  lid  of  the  box  before  men- 

>  tioned,  and  taking  from  it  a  large,  richly  set  pin, 
thrust  it  into  his  pocket.     Without  closing  either 
drawer  or  box,  he  hastily  turned  away,  put  on  his 
hat,  and  left  the   house.      His   steps  were   bent 
direct  for  the  shop  of  a  pawnbroker,  where  he 
pledged  the  pin  for  five  dollars.     With  this  money, 

he  intended,  after  gratifying  the  intolerable  long-  jj 

ing  for  some  stimulating  draught  that  was  half- 
maddening  him,  to  buy  some  provisions  for  his 
family.  He  entered  the  nearest  tavern,  and 
eagerly  called  for  brandy.  A  glass  was  pushed 
|  towards  him,  and  a  well-filled  decanter  set  by  its 

side.     The  glass  was  nearly  filled  with  the  raw  i> 


liquor,  lifted  with  a  trembling  hand,  and  poured 


down  at  a  draught.  After  paying  for  it,  Mr. 
Cameron  seated  himself  at  a  table  covered  with 
newspapers,  and  commenced  reading. 

Madeline   had  heard  every  movement  of  her 
father  in  his  room,  which  adjoined  her  own  cham- 
ber.     She  heard  him  walking  the   floor;  heard 
3 


> • 


26  A  DAUGHTER'S  LGVE.  <; 

him  open  the  drawer ;  heard  the  sound  of  his  voice 
in  his  muttered  exclamations,  when  he  suddenly 
left  the  room  and  hurried  down  stairs.  She  went-  <\ 
to  the  window  and  followed  his  rapid  steps  with 
her  eyes,  until  he  was  out  of  sight.  Then  she 
fell  into  a  deep  and  painful  reverie,  from  which 
she  was  aroused  by  the  entrance  of  Hetty  from  the 
kitchen,  who  wished  to  know  if  anything  had  yet 
been  obtained  for  dinner,  as  it  was  getting  very 
late,  and  there  certainly  would  not  be  any  time  to 
<;*  cook  it. 

"  You  needn't  get  any  dinner  to-day ;  Hetty," 
Madeline  said,  with  forced  calmness,  "  Father,  I 
believe,  will  not  be  home,  and  I  don't  care  for 
f>  anything  more  than  a  cup  of  tea.  Pick  up  some-  j 
thing  for  yourself  and  Agnes.  She  will  be  satis- 
fied with  potatoes,  if  you  will  boil  some,  and  mash 
them  up  nicely." 

"  But  the  potatoes  are  all  out.  I  forgot  to  tell 
you  so  this  morning." 

"  0,  well,  pick  up  anything.     You  need   not 
\          get  any  regular  dinner  to-day." 

Hetty  looked  curiously  at  Madeline  for  a  moment 
or  two,  arrd  then  retired  to  the  kitchen,  saying  as 
she  did  so,  in  an  under  tone — 

"  Humph  !  I  guess  they  havn't  got  any  money 
to  buy  a  dinner.  If  it 's  come  to  that,  Hetty  must 
begin  to  look  out  for  other  quarters.  Let  ine  see 
— how  much  is  owing  to  me  ?  Five  weeks  yes- 
terday, since  I  was  paid  up :  that  is  seven  dollars 
and  a  half.  Oh,  dear !  and  nothing  to  buy  food 
with  ?  I  can't  stay  here,  no  how." 

The  domestic  seated  herself  in  the  kitchen  and 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  w 

conned  this  matter  over  and  over  again,  for  nearly 
half  an  hour. 

"  I  feel  sorry  for  Miss  Madeline,"  si  e  at  length 
said  to  herself.  "But  I  can't  help  it.  I  can't 
afford  to  stay  here  for  nothing.  I  must  tell  her  *" 
look  out  for  somebody  else.  The  old  gentleman 
acts  very  curious,  it  strikes  me.  If  I  'm  not  mis- 
taken he  is  tipsy  more  than  half  of  his  time.  He 
wasn't  home  all  last  night,  which  doesn't  look 
good." 

Meantime,  Madeline  had  gone  into  her  father's 
room ;  the  first  thing  that  arrested  her  eye,  was 
the  open  drawer,  to  which  she  went.  Her  mother's 
well-known  little  box  of  rare  woods  curiously  in- 
laid, was  in  the  bottom,  with  the  lid  thrown  back. 
A  suspicion  flashed  across  her  mind.  She  eagerly 
examined  the  contents.  At  first  she  thought  all  % 
was  safe.  But  no — the  breastpin  was  gone  ! 

All  was  understood  in  a  moment,  and  the  poor 
girl  sank  down  upon  a  chair,  faint  as  death.  This 
then,  was  their  extremity.  Her  father  had  been 
compelled  to  take  a  relic,  dear  for  the  sake  of  her 
who  had  owned  it,  and  sell,  or  pawn  it  for — ah ! 
for  what  ?  For  food  ?  It  might  be,  and  that  was 
dreadful  to  think  of ;  but  worse,  it  would  be  sold 
to  buy  liquor,  also,  and  perhaps,  all  be  spent  for 
the  maddening  poison. 

Madeline's  first  thought  was  to  remove  the  box ; 
but  on  reflection,  she  was  unwilling  to  do  so.  That 
would  be  to  reveal  to  her  father  the  d;scovery  she 
had  made,  and  to  openly  rebuke  him  for  what  he 
had  done.  The  recollection  of  his  sternness  and 
self-determination,  when  any  one  who  had  no 
right  to  do  so  opposed  him,  would  have  prevented 


28  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

the  act,  had  not  the  tenderness  of  her  filial  love        ,; 
decided  her  not  to  touch  the  box,  even  if  relics 
still  more  sacred  were  removed. 

In  a  state  of  mental  anguish  hard  to  be  con-        ;' 
ceived,  the  daughter  had  remained  sitting  where 
she  had  sunk  down  almost  powerless,  for  a  long 
time — how  long  she  did  not  herself  know,  when 
the  door  ope-ncd,  and  Hetty  again  made  her  ap-        ^ 
pearance.     The  girl  hesitated  for  a  time,  and  then 
said,  evidently  with  reluctance, 

"  I  think,  Miss  Madeline,  that  I  shall  leave 
you." 

"  Leave  us,  Hetty  !"  ejaculated  Miss  Cameron, 
in  surprise.  "  Why  do  you  wish  to  do  so  ?  Have 
I  not  been  kind  to  you  ?" 

"  0,  yes,  miss,  very  kind.     I  have  no  particular 
fault.     Only,  I  think  I  would  like  to  change." 
f  a  Very  well,  Hetty.     You  shouldn't  stay  if  you 

do  not  feel  free  to  do  so.     Have  you  got  a  new 
place  ?" 

"  No.     But  I  can  easily  get  one." 

• "  You  really  wish  to  go,  then  ?" 

"  I  thought  I  would  rather  change ;  though  I 
like  this  place  as  well  as  any  one  I  was  ever  in — 
I  will  say  that,  miss." 

"  How  much  wages  is  coming  to  you  w 

"  I  am  owed  for  five  weeks." 

"  That  is  seven  dollars  and  a  half?" 

"  Yes." 

"  How  soon  do  you  wish  to  leave  ?" 

"  I  thought  I  would  like  to  go  out  this  afternoon 
and  see  if  I  couldn't  get  a  place.  I  heard  my 
sister  speak  about  one  where  they  give  two  dollars 
a  week." 


J  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  29 

"  Very  well,  Hetty,  you  can  go  out  /f  you  wish. 
There  is  nothing  particular  for  you  to  do.  Your 

£  money  shall  be  ready  for  you  when  you  are  ready 
to  leave." 

Hetty  retired,  half-sorry  that  she  had  proposed 
to  go.  Madeline's  remark,  that  her  money  would 
be  ready  for  her,  took  away  more  than  half  of  her 

'\          desire  to  get  a  new  place. 

Again  left  to  herself,  Madeline's  thoughts  re- 

£  verted  to  her  father.  Something  wrong  had  evi- 
dently occurred.  The  most  probable  idea  pre- 
sented to  her  mind,  was,  that  he  had  lost  his  situa- 
tion. And  this  the  reader  knows  to  be  true. 

Slowly  and  anxiously  passed  the  whole  day,  and 
still  Mr.  Cameron  did  not  return.  As  the  shades 
of  evening  began  to  fall,  the  daughter's  feelings 

j>  overcame  her  so  much  that  she  was  forced  to  lie 
down  to  keep  from  fainting.  Notwithstanding 
she  had  slept  scarcely  any  during  the  preceding 
night,  her  mind  was  too  much  agitated  to  sink 
into  sweet  unconsciousness.  She  lay,  eagerly 
listening  to  each  sound  that  broke  upon  the  air, 
hoping  for,  yet  dreading  with  an  indefinable  dread, 
her  father's  return. 


Hetty  had  gone  out,  as  she  intimated  that  she 


wished  to  do  ;  and  did  not  return  until  after 
dark. 

"  What  shall  I  get  for  tea,  Miss  Madeline  ?"  she 
asked,  coming  into  the  room  where  Miss  Cameron 
lay. 

"  Nothing  for  me,  Hetty.  I  could  not  eat  a 
mouthful  ;  and  I  hardly  expect  father.  But  you 
<  had  better  keep  the  kettle  boiling  —  he  may  come 
home  to  supper." 

I  3*  I 

^-uA 


30  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 


"  There  isn't  any  bread." 

Madeline  recollected,  at  tl  e  moment,  tnat  tnere 
was  a  ten  cent  piece  in  one  of  her  drawers.  She 
directed  the  domestic  to  get  it  and  buy  some 
bread. 

"  Hadn't  I  better  get  a  little  sugar  while  I  am 
at  the  store  ?"  asked  Hetty. 

"  No.  I  expect  father  will  bring  home  all  we 
want,  when  he  comes,"  was  replied.  ^ 

Eight,  nine,  ten  o'clock  came,  but  Mr.  Cameron 
did  not  return.  Overwearied,  she  fell  into  a  tem- 
porary slumber,  from  which,  about  eleven  o'clock, 
she  was  startled  by  a  loud  knocking  at  the  street  <; 
door,  and  the  sound  of  many  voices.  Springing 
<j  from  the  bed,  feeble  as  she  was,  she  ran  down 
stairs  half-wild  with  excitement,  and  hurriedly 
opened  the  door. 

Three  men  carried  her  father  in  their  arms. 
She  saw  only  this,  and  uttering  a  heart-searching 
cry,  sunk  to  the  floor  insensible. 

After  old  Mr.  Cameron  had  taken  his  first  glass 
of  brandy,  he  thought  but  little  more  of  home, 
and  the  want  and  suffering  there.  He  sat  and 
read  the  newspapers  for  half  an  hour,  and  then 
drank  again.  After  this  he  went  out  and  walked 
about  the  streets  for  some  time.  His  nerves  were 
steadier,  and  he  felt  comparatively  happy.  Aim- 
less at  first,  Mr.  Cameron  soon  determined  to  seek 
after  a  new  situation.  For  this  purpose,  he  went 
into  a  store  where  he  was  well  known.  The  two 
strong  glasses  of  brandy,  taken  upon  a  stomach 
almost  empty,  had  effected  him  a  good  deal,  and 
gave  to  his  whole  appearance  and  manner,  the  air 
of  a  man  more  than  half-intoxicated. 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  31 

£  / 

"  How  are  you,  Mr.  B ,"  he  said,  going 

up  familiarly  to  the  owner  of  the  store. 

"  Very  well ;  how  are  you,  Cameron  ?"  returned 
the  merchant,  moving  back  a  step  or  two;  for  his 
old  friend  pressed  up  closer  to  him  than  was  agree- 
£          able. 

"  Just  so,  so,  Mr.  B .     I  have  called  to          \ 

;>          ask  if  you  didn't  want  more  help  about  your  store. 
I  am  in  want  of  a  good  situation." 

"I    do   want    a  good    clerk,"   returned    Mr. 

B ,  speaking  gravely,  and  looking  with  a          \ 

contracted  brow  upon  Cameron.      "  But  I  can't 
employ  you,  highly  as  I  regard  your  ability,  and 
;>          much  as  I  honour  your  integrity." 

"  Why  so,  Mr.  B ?" 

"  For  the  best  of  all  reasons,  you  are  not  a  sober 
man."  ff 

"Do  you  wish  to  insult  me T'  was. the  quick 
retort  of  Mr.  Cameron,  while  the  blood  flew  to 
his  face.  Till  this  moment,  never  in  his  life  had  ;> 
any  one,  for  whose  opinion  he  cared  at  all,  hinted, 
even  remotely,  that  he  suspected  him  of  the  vice 
in  which  he  was  indulging  to  the  destruction  of 
both  soul  and  body. 

"  No,  I  do  not  wish  to  insult  you  ;"  was  calmly 
replied,  "  but  to  tell  you  the  plain  truth,  which 
no  man  should  be  afraid  to  hear.  If  you  were  a 
sober  man,  I  for  one,  would  feel  glad  to  employ 
you.  But  you  are  not ;  even  at  this  moment,  you 
are  not  yourself.  It  is  strange " 

But  Cameron  waited  to  hear  no  more.  Turn- 
ing off  abruptly  he  strode  rapidly  from  the  pre- 
sence of  him  who  had  dared  to  insult  him  by 
telling  the  truth.  Had  the  infatuated  man  been 

i  1 


32  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  \ 

sober,  this  would  have  deeply  humbled  him.     But 
j;  he  had  been  drinking,  and  it  made  him  very  angry.          !> 

From  the  store  of  Mr.  B ,  he  went  to  a         <; 

tavern,  and  indulged  even  more  freely  than  he  had         ''/ 
already  done. 

Another  attempt  was  made  to  obtain  a  situation, 
but  his  drunken  condition  was  even  more  apparent          ;> 
than  before.     No  one  would  employ  him.     And         's, 
many  treated  him  with  great  rudeness  and  want 
of  consideration.     At  last,  he  called  upon  an  old         $ 
merchant,  with  whom  he  had  been  on  intimate 
terms.     They  had  sat  together  in  the  same  Board 
of  Directors  for  years,  and  had  frequently  been         J- 
engaged  together  in  effecting  some  heavy  commer- 
cial operations.      The   condition   in  which   Mr. 
Cameron  was,  when  he  called  at  his  store,  pained 
ff  this  old  business  friend  very  much.     He  asked  him 

;>  to  walk  up  stairs  into  his  private  counting  room, 

and  there  kindly  held  him  in  conversation,  until 
Cameron  began  to  show  signs  of  drowsiness.     To 
£  his  great  relief  of  mind,  the  poor  man  was  pre-         } 

sently  fast  asleep,  reclining  upon  a  sofa. 

Here,  he  lay  until  the  middle  of  the  afternoon, 
when    he   awoke,   suffering   a   most    intolerable          £ 
thirst.     He  was  alone,  and,  for  a  time,  much  be- 
wildered.    Dimly,  he  at  length  began  to  perceive 
the  truth.     He  remembered  having  called  in  to          *> 
see   the  old  friend  in  whose   counting  room  he 
found  he  had  been  sleeping,  and  he  also  remem- 
bered a  portion  of  the  conversation  that  had  passed 
between  them. 

A  deep  sense  of  shame  for  the  exposure  he  saw 
that  he  had  made  of  himself,  caused  his  cheek  to 
burn.     Quietly  leaving  the  room,  he   made   his 
9 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  33         <; 

way  down  stairs,  and  unperceived,  left  the  store. 
A  burning  thirst  led  him  to  a  tavern,  where  he 
again  indulged  freely.  He  had>  eaten  nothing 
since  morning,  and  felt  no  desire  for  food.  Drink 

j!          — drink — drink — it  was  all  he  cared  for. 

There  were  several  idlers  in  the  bar-room.  To 
kill  time,  one  of  them  proposed  to  play  dominoes 
with  Cameron.  He  consented.  Anything  was 
preferable  to  reflection.  They  played  for  liquor, 

j;         and  drank  all  the  time  they  played.     It  was  at 
last  proposed  to  play  for  money,  and  agreed  to. 
The  stakes  were  trifling.     But  when  the  two  men          \ 
separated,  Cameron  had  only  about  a  dollar  in  his 

;          pocket. 

He  said  nothing,  but,  in  the  disordered  state  of 


mind  in  which  he  was,  believed  that  he  had  been 


cheated.  On  leaving  the  table  where  he  had  been 
'  playing,  the  old  man  called  for  some  oysters,  which 

he  ate  raw,  and  then  went  out.     It  was  after  dark. 

He  walked  towards  home,  scarcely  thinking  about 
';  where  he  was  going.  When  nearly  at  his  own 


door,  he  stopped,  and  turning  quickly  away, 
walked  off  in  a  contrary  direction.  He  could  not 
meet  his  daughter.  For  an  hour  or  two  he  wan- 
dered about  the  streets.  But  habit  and  an  insatia- 


ij  ble  desire  for  liquor,  again  took  him  to  a  drinking 
house.  Here,  he  felt  more  at  ease  and  happier. 
The  whole  atmosphere  had  in  it  something  con- 
genial. After  drinking,  he  sat  down  to  read,  or 
chat  with  any  one  inclined  to  talk  with  a  man 
who  was  half-intoxicated. 

Thus  passed  the  time  until  after  ten  o'clock, 
when  one  bar-room  lounger  after  another  retired, 
and  but  three  or  four  remained.  Cameron  had 


34  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

• 

continued  to  drink,  until  he  was  scarcely  able  to 
stand. 

"  Come,  old  man,"  said  the  bar-keeper  to  him, 
roughly,  "at  this  late  hour,  it  is  time  all  honest 
people  were  at  home,  and  rogues  a  jogging." 

Made  angry  by  this  speech,  Cameron  retorted 
with  some  bitterness.  At  the  moment  of  his  do- 
ing so,  the  door  opened,  and  the  man  who  had  won 
bis  money  at  dominoes  came  in. 

"  Take  care  what  you  say,  old  fellow !"  replied 
the  bar-keeper,  "  or  I  '11  tumble  you  out  of  doors, 
neck  and  heels,  in  less  than  no  time." 

"  Highty-ty-ty  !  What 's  to  pay  here  ?"  ejacu- 
lated the  new  comer,  advancing  close  up  to  the 
bar-keeper  and  Cameron. 

The  latter  turned  around,  and  instantly  recog- 
nised the  individual  who  had  spoken. 
$  "  Nobody  asked  for  your  interference,"  he  said, 

with  a  scowl.      "You'd  better  hand   back  the 
money  you  cheated  me  out  of  this  afternoon." 

"  What  ?'  And  the  whole  aspect  of  the  man 
changed.  "  Do  you  say  that  I  cheated  you  ?" 
taking  hold  of  the  collar  of  the  old  man's  coat 
with  a  strong  grasp,  as  he  spoke. 

"  Be  sure  I  do." 

A  heavy  blow  against  the  poor  drunken  crea- 
ture's head,  knocked  him  insensible  to  the  floor, 
while  the  blood  gushed  from  his  mouth  and  nose. 

The  wretch  who  had  committed  this  brutal  out- 
rage, was  about  following  up  the  act  by  kicking 
't  Cameron  in  the  face ;  but  he  was  prevented  doing 
so,  by  a  stout,  resolute  man,  who  had  sat  looking 
on,  and  now  sprang  forward,  and  catching  him  by 
the  shoulders,  whirled  him  to  the  other  side  of  the 


1 

A   DAUGHTEE-'S  L'JVE.  35 

room.  The  man  was  a  coward  at  heart,  and  slunk 
away,  on  recovering  himself,  without  saying  a 
word. 

Efforts  were  made  to  restore  Cameron  to  con- 
sciousness,  but   without  success.  'The   gush  of 

>  blood  had  restored  the  partial  paralysis  of  the 
vital  organs ;  but  he  was  too  much  intoxicated  to 
permit  the  activities  of  these  organs  to  give  power 
to  the  extremities  of  his  body.  $ 

In  this  state  he  was  brought  home,  as  the  reader 
has  seen. 

The  men  who  carried  home  the  insensible  Mr. 

<         Cameron,  when  they  saw  the  effect  his  sudden  ap-          ;> 
pearance   had  produced  on   Madeline,  remained 
until  the  poor  girl  recovered  from  the  shock  that 


had   temporarily  deprived  her  of  consciousness. 


Then  they  quieted  her  fears  as  best  they  could, 
The  old  man  was  taken  to  his  chamber,  and  laid 
in  bed.  After  they  had  retired,  Madeline  took  a 

I;  lamp  and  went  up  to  her  father,  holding  the  light 
so  that  it  would  fall  on  his  face.  She  shuddered 

£  as  she  saw  blood  upon  his  collar,  and  on  the  hand- 
kerchief which  she  took  from  his  neck.  His  hair 
was,  likewise,  matted  in  places,  with  what  was 
evidently  blood. 

With  trembling  anxiety,  and  a  heart  whose 
rapid  pulsations  almost  suffocated  her,  the  daughter 
sought  eagerly  for  the  wound  from  which  this  had 
flowed,  expecting  each  moment  to  find  some  terri-  ': 
ble  gash.  But  nothing  of  the  kind  appeared.  The 
skin  was  nowhere  broken.  Relieved  from  a  sud- 
denly-awakened and  paralyzing  fear,  Madeline 
now  regarded  the  face  of  her  parent  more  closely 
than  before.  How  changed  its  whole  expression ' 


I 

^X*-^%»rw"N 


fv^-w-w-.rv^ 


36  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

How  pale  and  sunken  his  cheeks !     How  distorted 
every  feature !  j] 

For  a  single  instant,  she  wished  that  she  nad 
died  when  her  mother  died.  But  filial  love  as 
quickly  dispelled  this  state  of  mind.  If  she  were 
away,  who  would  care  for  the  old  man,  her  father, 
who  had  estranged  himself  from  all  his  former  <j 
friends,  and  could  make  no  more  new  ones?  Who 
would  watch  over  her  little  sister  Agnes,  and  min- 
ister to  the  wants,  and  bear  with  the  weaknesses 
<;  of  her  childhood  ? 

"  No,  no !"  she  murmured,  rising  to  an  erect 
ij          position — "  I  have  sacred  duties  yet  to  perform  in 
this   world.      I  wish   not  to   delegate   them  to 
others."  § 

This  thought  strengthened  the  heart  of  Made-          £ 
line,  and  elevated  her  feelings  into  something  like 
heroism.      But  alas!  alas!  there  is  little  in  the 
condition  of  a  drunkard's  child  to  sustain  a  feeling 
of  heroism. 

After  becoming  satisfied  that  her  father  was 
sleeping,  she  left  him  alone,  and  retired  to  her 
own  chamber.  Closing  the  door,  she  sunk  on 
her  knees  by  the  bed-side,  and  remained  thus  for 
full  ten  minutes.  Then  arising,  she  disrobed  her- 
self and  lay  down  upon  her  pillow,  but  not  to 
sl3ep.  Her  mind  was  too  much  excited,  and  her 
;  anxieties  too  keenly  alive.  Thought  remained 

busy  for  a  long  time ;  but  the  more  she  thought, 
the  more  hopeless  did  her  condition  seem.     To-          j 
wards  midnight,  she  fell  off  into  an  unconscious 
sleep,  and  did  not  awake  until  long  after  the  sun 
was  up.  <; 

Arising  as  quickly  as  her  feeble  strength  would 
9* 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  37 

permit,  she  dressed  herself,  and  went  to  her 
father's  door.  She  knocked,  but  there  was  no 
answer.  She  knocked  again.  All  remained  still. 
She  listened  intently,  but  not  the  slightest  sound 
of  life  from  within,  reached  her  attentive  ears.  <! 

She  could  not  long  endure  a  feeling  of  suspense.  ;> 

Opening  the  door,  she  entered  her  father's  cham 
ber.     It  was  tenantless !     One  of  the  drawers  of  a 
bureau  stood  out — the   same   that  contained  the  ^ 

little  keepsakes  left  by  her  mother.  She  went  to 
the  drawers,  and  found  the  lid  of  the  box  that  it 
contained,  open.  She  examined  the  contents,  ;> 

and  missed  a  pair  of  bracelets  that  her  mother  had 
worn  in  her  earlier  days,  and  which  she  had 
always  prized,  because  they  were  a  birth-day  gift 
from  her  husband.  £ 

On  making  this  discovery,  Madeline  staggered 
back,  and  dropped,  half-fainting,   into   a   chair. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  her  father  had  already          £ 
fallen  so  low !     The  thought  paralyzed  both  mind          5 
and  body.     How  long  a  time  passed  as  she  sat  in, 
or  rather,  partly  lay  across  the  back  of  a  chair, 
she  did  not  know,  but  she  was  restored  to  a  per- 
ception of  external  things,  by  hearing  her  father's 
step  and  voice  below.     Quickly  leaving  his  room, 
she  went  into  her  own,  and  listened  with  breath-          J. 
less  attention.     He  was  speaking  to  Hetty,  and 
Madeline   quickly  gathered  that  he   was  giving 
some  directions  about  breakfast.  ;> 

Mr.  Cameron  had,  in  fact,  been  out  and  pur- 
chased the  various  articles  that  he  remembered 
were  spoken  of  the  day  before.  But  where  did 
he  get  the  money  ?  From  the  sale  of  his  deceased 
wife's  bracelets!  Did  he  buy  only  food*  Ah, 
4 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 


no !  His  trembling  frame  had  to  be  restored  to 
something  like  its  wonted  condition  by  a  glass  of 
liquor. 

The  bracelets  he  sold  for  three  dollars.     Their 
original  cost  was   fifteen.     After  the  articles  he 
had  purchased  were  handed  over  to  Hetty,  with  a 
twenty-five  cent  piece  to  buy  bread,  Mr.  Cameron 
retired  to  his  room  to  shave  himself,  and  arrange 
his  clothes  so  as  to  make  the  best  possible  appear-         I; 
ance  at  the  breakfast  table.     When  the  bell  rung, 
Madeline   and   little   Agnes   came   down.      Mr.          '/ 
Cameron  joined  them  in  a  few  minutes.    He  spoke 
kindly,  and  made  an  effort  to  converse,  but  Made- 
line's heart  was  too  full  to  reply  further  than  in 
monosyllables.     In  a  little  while,  a  deep  silence          j; 
pervaded  the  room  where  they  had  assembled  to 
eat  their  morning  meal,  which  continued  until  the 
meal  was  concluded. 

Shortly  after  Mr.  Cameron  left  the  table,  he 
took  up  his  hat  and  went  out.     The  history  of  one 
day  that  we  have  given  in  the  life  of  the  drunkard          <, 
and  his  child,  is  the  history  of  many  days.     We          $ 
'need  not  repeat  it  with  its  deeper  shades,  and  sad 
variations.     Enough  for  the  reader,  that  Cameron 
made  no  effort  to  struggle   against  the  tide  that 
was  bearing  him  down,  but  yielded  passively  to 
the  current.     All   attempts  to  get   employment, 
except  at  some  menial  occupations,  failed.     His 
family  was  reduced  to  the  greatest  want,  and  after 
sacrificing  nearly  everything,  except  one  or  two 
articles  of  her  mother's  which  Madeline  had  con- 
cealed, they  were  literally  turned  inte  the  street          \ 
by  the  landlord  of  the  house  they  occupied. 

The  anguish  of  mind  produced  by  this  extremity. 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  «jg 

to  which  they  were  reduced,  was  so  great  that 
Madeline,  who,  with  her  little  sister,  had  been 
taken  into  a  poor  neighbor's  house,  was  made  dan- 
gerously ill.  It  was  weeks  before  she  could  sit  up, 
and  then  she  gained  strength  so  slowly,  that  there 
was  little  prospect  of  her  being  able  to  help  her- 
self for  many  weeks  to  come.  During  all  this 
time,  she  had  neither  seen  nor  heard  from  her  <! 
father ; — her  anxiety  on  his  account  was  almost 


insupportable.     She  imagined  him  in  every  varied 
condition  of  suffering,  and  exposed  to  every  priva- 


\ 

tion,  and  her  imagination  exceeded  in  its  pictures 
but  little,  the  sad  reality. 

The  family  into  which  the  poor  girl  and  her 
little  sister  had  been  received,  was  that  of  a  poor 
day  labourer,  who  had  more  than  enough  to  do  to 
get  comfortable  food  and  clothing  for  his  wife  and 
children,  and  pay  his  landlord  when  the  rent  be- 
came due.     The  commiseration  of  his  wife  had          < 
induced  him  to  consent  to  give  shelter  to  the  sick 
daughter  of  Cameron.     But  he  soon  began  to  feel 
chafed  at  her  prolonged  illness,  and  the  heavier 
j.          burdens  it  imposed  upon   him.      He  frequently 
alluded  to  the  subject  when  alone  with  his  wife, 
^          and  at  last  never  mentioned  it  except  with  fretful- 
,^          ness  or  impatience.     He  had  proposed  something 
to  the  wife  one  night,  in  regard  to  Madeline  and 
her  sister,  which  she  strongly  opposed. 

"  O,  no,  no,  I  cannot  think  of  such  a  thing." 


She  replied. 

"  But  we  cannot  keep  them.     It  is  impossible." 
"  Let  us  bear  it  a  little  longer.     The  poor  girl  is 

a  something  better." 

"  I  don't  see  that  she  is.     If  we  don't  get  rid 


i  I 

40  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

of  them  soon,  we  shall  have  them  saddled  on  to 
us  entirely." 

"  Do  not  think  so.  Madeline  feels  her  situation 
deeply,  and  is  anxious  to  relieve  us." 

"  But  she  will  never  be  able  to  help  herself. 
<!          Any  one  can  see  that.     She  is  far  gone  in  con-         ;j 
sumption,  and  will   be  in  her  grave   before   six 
months.     She  had  better  go  where  she  will  be  well         £ 
taken  care  of,  and  not  be  a  burden  to  any  one,  as 
she  is  now." 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  I  cannot  bear  the  thought." 

"  Depend  upon  it,  it  is  the  best  for  her  and  us.         ;> 
'/          Her  drunken  old  father  won't  do  anything  for  her, 
<;  and  as  I  have  said,  it  is  out  of  the  question  to 

think  of  her  doing  anything  herself.     She  is  not 
able,  and  never  will  be." 

The  wife  looked  sad,  but  made  no  reply. 

But  the  husband  continued  to  urge  his  proposi- 
!>  tion,  whatever  it  was,  to  which   the  wife  con-         £ 

sented,  at  last,  but  with  even  a  tearful  reluctance.         ^ 

The  next  day  was  a  brighter  one  than  usual ; 
the  woman  with  whom  Madeline  was  staying, 
came  into  her  room,  soon  after  her  husband  had 
left  in  the  morning,  and  said,  with  what  seemed 
to  her  a  slightly  embarrassed  air. 

"  This  is  a  very  fine  day,  and  1  think  it  would 
be  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  you,  if  you 
could  only  take  a  ride  out,  and  get  some  of  the 
pure  air." 

"I  have  no  doubt  that  it  would,"  replied  Made- 
line, languidly.  "  But  that  is  not  to  be  thought 
of." 

"  1  aon't  know.     Perhaps  somebody  who  has  a 


L. 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

carriage  might  feel  willing  to  give  you  a  ride. 

would  do  you  so  much  good."  ? 

Madeline  made  no  reply. 

"There  is  John  Morgan,  around  the  corner, 
who  drives  a  cab.  He  is  a  clever  sort  of  a  man. 
When  he  comes  home  to  dinner  I  think  I'll  just 
step  in  and  see  him,  I  know  him  very  well,  and 
<j  put  the  question  to  him.  It  can  do  no  harm.  If 
he  is  not  engaged,  I  am  sure  he  will  give  you  a 
little  drive  out."  ;> 

Madeline  objected  to  this,  but  the  woman  de- 
clared that  she  would  do  what  she  said,  and  when 
dinner  time  came,  actually  went  round  to  see 
Morgan.  On  returning,  she  announced  to  Anna 
that  she  had  seen  John,  who  readily  consented  to 
do  as  she  had  desired.  Still  Madeline  expressed  !> 
reluctance,  but  the  woman  urged  her  so  strongly 
that  she  at  last  consented. 

"  You  will  take  Agnes  along,  of  course,"  said 
the  woman. 

"  I  don't  know.     Perhaps  I  had  better  let  her 
stay  at  home." 

"  O,  no  !     The  poor  child  has  been  shut  up  so 
long,  it  will  do  her  good." 

Madeline  did  not  object  further.  The  cab  dri 
\  ver  was  to  come  at  three  o'clock,  and  Madeline 
assisted  by  the  woman,  prepared  herself  for  the 
ride.  The  effort  required  to  do  this,  made  her 
feel  so  faint,  that,  after  her  clothes  were  on,  she 
was  compelled  to  lie  down. 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  wont  be  able  to  bear  the  ride." 

"O,  yes,  you  will.      It  will   make   you  feel 
stronger,"  returned  the  woman. 

4* 

L. 


42  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

"  Couldn't  you  go  with  me  ?"  asked  Madeline, 
faintly. 

"  That  is  out  of  the  question:     I  cannot  leave 
home.     But  I  will  fix  a  pillow  so  that  you  can 
almost  lie  down.     Depend  upon  it,  you  will  feel          } 
the  better  for  a  ride." 

Madeline  was  passive.  At  three  o'clock  the 
cab  came,  and  she,  supported  by  the  driver, 
entered  it  with  little  Agnes.  The  woman  re-  I1, 
turned  into  the  house  as  the  vehicle  drove  off,  and 
sinking  into  a  chair,  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Oh,  dear  !     It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  be  poor ! 
She  will  think  me  the  cruellest  and  most  deceitful 
woman  alive.     But  I  couldn't  help  it.     Poor  soul ! 
It  will  be  a  dreadful  shock !     But   she  will  be         -jj 
better  off.     O,  yes,  a  great  deal  better  off." 
s'  The  motion  of  the  carriage  caused  Madeline  to         <", 

£  feel  very  sick.     This  continued  for  ten  minutes. 

When  it  began  to  pass  off,  she  raised  her  head,         I; 
and  looking  from  the  window,  perceived  that  they 
were  crossing  the  permanent  bridge.      As  they 
came  forth  on  the  other  side,  and  the  eyes  of  the 
invalid  fell  upon  the  green  fields  and  woods,  her 
spirits  revived.   Little  Agnes  was  in  raptures,  clap- 
ping her  hands,  and  uttering  the  pleasure  she  felt          <; 
with  childish  volubility. 

The  cab  continued  on,  and  after  driving  through          I> 
a  portion  of  West  Philadelphia,  turned  off  to  the 
left.     In  a  few  moments  the  eyes  of  Madeline  fell 
upon  the  long  ranges  of  white  buildings  that  com- 
pose the  Blockley  Alms-house,  from  which  they 
wandered  off,  first  across  the  river  to  the  city,  and          ? 
then  to  the  grassy  meadows,  fruit-laden  trees, 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  43 

and  blooming  gardens  around  her.  The  noiae, 
confusion,  and  close  air  of  the  city,  were  ex- 
changed for  a  deep,  soothing,  quiet,  and  pure 
air,*fresh  from  the  hill-side,  or  sweet  with  odours 
from  fields  and  gardens.  Both  body  and  mind  re- 
;>  vived  under  these  influences  ;  the  sick  girl  sat  up 
more  firmly,  and  looked  abroad  with  a  calmer 


spirit. 


Slowly  the  vehicle  in  which  she  rode,  passed          > 
%          on,  until  it  was  opposite  the  range  of  buildings 
just  mentioned,  when  the  horse  stopped.     Made- 
line turned  her  head,  and  saw  that  they  had  driven 
£          up  to  a  large  gate,  that  a  porter  was  just  opening. 
As  the  gate  swung  back  upon  its  hinges,  the  dri- 
ver spoke  to  his  horse,  and  they  passed  through, 
and  moved  down  a  broad,  smooth  lane. 

A  chill  passed  through  the  frame  of  Madeline, 
she  hardly  knew  why.  A  foreboding  of  evil  fell 
like  a  deep  shadow  on  her  heart.  She  sank  back 
in  the  carriage,  and  closed  her  eyes.  It  was  not 
many  minutes  before  the  driver  reine-d  in  his 
horse,  and  backed  up  the  cab  to  some  stopping 
place.  Madeline  feared  to  think  where.  The 
door  was  opened,  and  a  voice  said — 

"  Come !" 

Madeline  started  and  opened  her  eyes.  Several 
men,  and  one  woman,  were  standing  close  up  to 
the  cab.  One  of  the  men  held  a  paper  in  his 
hand. 

"Where  am  I?  What  does  this  mean?"  asked 
the  bewildered  girl,  in  a  voice  of  touching  anguish. 

"  0,  nothing !  nothing !"  said  the  man  half-in- 
differently.  "  You  are  sick,  and  we  are  going  to 
take  care  of  you." 


r 

44  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

The  pale  face  of  Madeline  grew  deadly  pale, 
as  she  comprehended  the  cruel  deception  that  had 
been  passed  upon  her.  It  was  the  Alms-house, 
j;  and  she  was  henceforth  to  be  one  of  its  inmates  ! 
Her  weak  frame  could  not  bear  the  shock.  She 
fell  forward,  insensible  into  the  arms  of  the  driver, 
and  was  borne  into  the  pauper's  home. 

Her  name  and  history,  when  known  to  the  Ma-  s' 
tron  of  the  Institution,  excited  her  deepest  sym- 
pathy. She  treated  her  with  the  greatest  tender- 
ness, and  permitted  her  little  sister  to  be  much 
with  her  every  day.  At  Madeline's  earnest  solici- 
tation, she  had  inquiries  made  for  her  father,  and 
learned  that  he  was  living  a  most  wretched  life,  — 
houseless  and  homeless.  She  further,  at  the  $ 
daughter's  request,  made  such  representations  to  the 
Guardians  of  the  poor,  that  the  old  man  was  taken 
up  and  brought  to  the  Alms-house.  Here,  how- 
ever, he  remained  but  a  short  time,  managing  to 
escape  and  return  to  the  city.  Several  times  he 
was  sent  out  by  the  Mayor,  but  as  often  got  away 
again.  This  caused'  Madeline,  whose  health 
seemed  to  improve,  rather  than  decline,  the 
greatest  distress.  Her  -imagination  pictured  her 
father  as  suffering  every  kind  of  privation,  indig- 
nity, atid  degredation,  and  she  began  to  feel  a 
strong  desire  to  get  away  from  a  place  where  she 
had  many  comforts  and  kind  attentions  —  where 
she  had  no  care  in  a  provision  for  herself  and  sis* 
ter  —  in  order  to  devote  the  little  strength  that  re- 


mained towards  supporting  her  father. 


This  desire  was  made  known  to  the  matron,  who 
would  not  listen  to  it  for  a  moment.  From  that 
time,  the  poor  girl  began  to  pine  for  her  liberty. 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  45 


Night  after  night,  she  would  dream  of  her  father, 

\         and  see  him  in  the  most  deplorable  circumstances,          ^ 
and  day  after  day  she  would  sit  and  think  only 
of  him. 

£  At  length  her  distress  of  mind  a»d  anxiety  be- 

came so  great,  that  she  determined  to  seek  an 
opportunity  to  steal  away  with  Agnes.  This  de« 
termination  she  soon  executed.  Weak  and  faint, 
she  made  her  way  into  the  city  late  one  afternoon ; 
but  where  could  she  go !  In  an  almost  helpless 
state  she  wandered  about  the  streets,  until  the 
twilight  began  to  fall.  She  had  become  so  ex-  \ 

I         hausted,  that  she  was  compelled  to  seat  herself 
upon  a  door-step,  to  keep  from  falling.     Little 

s         Agnes,  who  was  also  worn  out  with  fatigue,  sat 
down  beside  her,  and  laid  her  head  in  her  lap. 


In  a  moment  or  two  the  child  was  fast  asleep. 


One  after  another  passed  by,  some  glancing  at 
;>         the  languid  figure  of  the  unhappy  girl,  as  she  sat 
with  drooping  head ;  others  pausing  a  moment,  but 
none  asking  any  questions,  or  seeking  to  know  why 
;>         these  poor  Creatures  thus  sat  in  the  open  street  at 
night-fall. 

Darkness  came  down— the  current   of  home- 
bound  people  no  longer  set  strongly  past  the  home-          $ 
s1         less  wanderers.     The  street  was   comparatively, 
5         silent. 

"Agnes,  dear!  Come,  Agnes!  we  must  not  stay 
here,"  Madeline  said,  trying  to  awaken  the  sleep- 
ing child. 

But  the  senses  of  the  little  girl  were  deeply 
locked  in  slumber.     The  effort  to  awake  her,  was 
;I          vain. 

"  But  why  awake  the  poor  child  ?"  she  said, 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

after  several  ineffectual  attempts  to  arouse  her. 
"  I  have  no  bed  upon  which  to  place  her ;  no  roof 
to  cover  her  innocent  head.  O,  why !  why,  did  I 
take  her  from  her  only  home !  Sleep !  sleep,  my 
happily  unconscious  sister  !  It  is  better  for  you 
to  sleep." 

Again,  Madeline  thought  over  all  the  people  she 
had  once  known  in  the  city. 

"  Yes,  there  is  one  heart  that  will  receive  me  \n 
she  uttered,  half-aloud,  and  with  a  bounding  im- 
pulse of  thankfulness.  "  Come,  Aggy  dear,  come  ! 
Wake  up !» 

But  it  was  a  vain  effort.  The  child  fell  back 
heavily  in  her  lap.  Finding  these  attempts  of  no 
avail,  Madeline  arose  with  the  child  in  her  arms, 
and  tottered  off  as  hastily  as  she  could  go.  It  was 
before  a  house  in  Ninth  street,  that  she  had  sunk 
down  overwearied.  Her  steps  were  now  directed 
southward.  She  passed  Spruce  and  Pine  streets, 
panting  with  exertion,  and  kept  on  until  she 
was  forced  again  to  sit  down.  It  was  nearly  five 
minutes  before  she  felt  strong  enough  to  lift  Ag- 
nes, and  pursue  her  way.  At  the  corner  of  Bon- 
sal  street  she  paused  and  ran  her  eye  along  the 
houses  on  the  south  side,  eagerly.  It  was  dark, 
but  not  so  dark  as  to  prevent  her  distinguishing 
the  tenement  she  sought. 

"  If  she  has  moved  away,  what  shall  I  do  ?w 
murmured  the  almost  fainting  girl,  and  in  turning 
the  corner,  she  approached  a  small  house  that  was, 
evidently,  occupied  by  one  of  very  humble  con- 
dition. Stopping  before  it,  she  knocked  timidly. 
The  door  was  opened  by  an  old  coloured  wo- 
man. Madeline  stepped  in  past  her,  and  laying 


Cameron,  for  whom  she  had  been  washer-woman 
for  several  years,  were  before  her.  The  moment 
she  was  sure  of  this,  her  manner  changed.  Her 
countenance  fell,  and  the  tone  of  her  voice  became 
sad  and  tender. 

"  You  are  welcome,  Miss  Madeline,  to  the  little 
comfort  a  poor  old  body  like  me  can  give,"  she 
said,  commencing  to  untie  her  bonnet,  and  re- 
move her  shawl.  "  Oh,  dear !  To  think  that  I 
should  ever  see  you  at  my  door,  asking  for  a  place 
to  lay  your  head.  It  is  dreadful!  Where  is 
your  father  1" 

Madeline  shook  her  head. 

"  Poor  man !  I  saw  him  a  few  weeks  ago,  in 
tne  street.  He  wasn't  as  he  used  to  be." 

"  You  saw  him  ?" 


Agnesr  upon  a  bed  that  was  in  the  room,  dropped 
into  a  chair  herself,  and  sat  panting,  and  unable 
to  speak  for  some  moments. 

"  You  don't  know  me,  Rachel,"  she  at  length  ;> 

said,  lifting  her  eyes  to  the  face  of  the  old  woman, 
who  stood  looking  at  her  in  mute  astonishment. 

"  My  good  Master !"  was  the  answering  excla- 
mation. "  Miss  Madeline !  can  this  be  you  ?' 

"  Yes,  Rachel.  It  is  Madeline,  and  houseless 
and  homeless,  she  comes  to  beg  of  you  to  shelter 
her,  if  only  for  a  single  night." 

"  Oh,  mercy  !  Miss.  No  !  It  can't  be  my  young 
Miss  Madeline!      What  has  happened?     Is  that 
sweet  little  Agnes  ?     Goodness !     But  it  is  !" 
^  While   the  old   coloured  woman  was  making 

these  ejaculations,  she  was  examining  the  face  of 
Madeline,  and  the  sleeping  child,  attentively. 
The  result  satisfied  her  that  the  children  of  Mr. 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 


All  this  was  explained,  to  the  heart  grief  of  the 


«  Yes,  dear." 
"  And  not  since  ?" 
"  No.     Hav'nt  you  seen  him  in  three  or  four 
weeks  ?" 

Madeline  shook  her  head  mournfully.  < 

•'  Bless  me  !     Don't  you  know  where  he  is  V  \ 

"  No,  but  I  have  come  to  look  for  him,  anc*  . 
take  care  of  him,  while  I  have  strength  to  /  p 
up." 

5  Old  Rachel  couldn't  understand  this.     She  .  ew 

nothing  of  the  extremity  to  which  the  fan  ..  of 
5  Mr.  Cameron  had  been  reduced,  and  little  dreamed 
5  that  Madeline  was  a  fugitive  from  the  Alms-house. 


kind  old  coloured  woman,  during  the  evening. 

We  cannot  linger  to  portray  the  thoughts  and         <; 
feelings  of  Madeline   Cameron,  as  she  lay  that 
night  in  the  bed  given  her  in  charity  by  her  mo- 
ther's washer-woman.     The  reader  must  lift  the 
veil  for  himself. 

Through  the  aid  of  old  Rachel,  a  couple  ol 
rooms  were  procured  for  her  in  a  house  in  Dean 
street.  She  still  had  in  possession  when  she  was 
removed  to  the  Alms-house,  a  few  pieces  of  jew- 
elry, remembrances  of  her  mother.  These  had 
now  to  be  sacrificed.  Rachel  sold  them  for  her, 
and  with  the  money  obtained  by  the  sale,  bought 
the  few  articles  of  furniture  that  were  absolutely 
necessary,  not  forgeting  a  bed  for  her  father. 

After  Madeline  had  taken  possession  of  these 
rooms,  with  little  Agnes,  Rachel  went  to  some 
ladies  and  obtained  sewing. 

"  One  more  favour,  Rachel,"  Madeline  saidj 
after  the  kind  creature  had  done  all  this  for  her. 


\  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  49  I 

"  One  more,  and  that  shall  be  the  last.  You  must 
find  father  for  me.  All  this  is  for  his  sake.  I 
have  yet  a  little  strength  left,  and  that  I  must  de-* 
vote  to  him." 

Rachel  was  reluctant  to  do  this,  but  she  could 
not  resist  the  pleadings  of  Madeline.  Her  effoits 
to  discover  Mr.  Cameron  proved,  however,  inef- 
fectual. She  could  learn  nothing  in  regard  to 
him. 

"  You  are  sure  that  careful  search  has  been 
made  for  him,  Rachel,"  Madeline  would  say  ear- 
nestly, each  time  the  old  woman  came. 

"  O,  yes,  Miss,"  was  the  invariable  reply.  "  But 
I  cannot  hear  a  word  of  him." 

Thus  weeks  and  weeks  passed  away,  old  Rachel 
still  calling  in  at  intervals  to  see  Madeline,  but  at 
intervals  more  and  more  removed  from  each  other. 
All  search  for  Mr.  Cameron,  had  thus  far  proved 
vain. 

Little  Agnes  had  been  shown  the  way,  by 
Rachel,  to  the  houses  of  the  ladies  from  whom  the 
old  woman  had  procured  sewing,  and  she  regu- 
larly took  home  Madeline's  work,  receiving  the 
pay  for  it,  and  bringing  back  other  work,  when 
any  was  ready.  Of  the  money  thus  earned,  never 
more  than  half  was  expended  ;  the  residue  being 
carefully  laid  away,  in  order  to  gain  more  ability 
to  make  the  father  comfortable  whenever  he  should 
be  found — for  this  was  the  one  end  that  sustained  J> 
Madeline  in  her  self-imposed  duties,  which  weak- 
ness of  body  render  doubly  arduous. 

At  length  the  excitement  of  feeling  which  had 
kept  the  poor  girl  up,  died  away.  The  pains  in 
her  breast  and  side,  that  all  along  had  been  very 

5 


50  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

troublesome,  increased  to  such  a  degree,  that,  often 
•;  she  would  be  compelled  to  put  down  her  work 
and  recline  for  an  hour,  or  more,  upon  the  bed. 
From  exhausting  night  sweats,  that  seemed  to  grow 
more  and  more  profuse,  it  was  longer  and  longer 
each  morning,  before  she  could  sit  down  to  her 
work,  without  feeling  a  sick  faintness  and  giddi- 
ness that  only  passed  away  when  she  threw  herself 
upon  the  bed. 

One,  two,  and  three  months  went  by,  and  still 
«!          Madeline  toiled  on,  unrewarded  by  the  discovery 
of  her  father.     By  this  time,  her  strength  had  de- 
clined so  much,  that  she  could  only  sit  up,  and 
sew  for  an  hour  or  two  each  day.     Her  little  store 
;>  of  money,  the  result  of  careful  saving,  she  was 

compelled  to  draw  upon  to  meet  the  absolute 
wants  of  herself  and  sister.  It  was  with  a  melan- 
choly feeling,  that  she  saw  this  fund  diminishing 
daily.  At  last  it  was  all  gone,  and  about  the  time 
jl  that  it  failed,  her  strength  failed,  likewise.  Ra- 

il chel  had  not  been  to  see  her  for  many  weeks. 

The  old  woman  did  not  feel  indifferent  towards 
her,  but  the  fact  was,  she  had  heard  of  Madeline's 
father,  who  was  leading  a  most  wretched  and 
abandoned  life.  She  knew  that  Madeline's  first 
question,  on  visiting  her,  would  be  about  the  old 
man,  and  she  did  not  wish  to  utter  an  untruth. 
Her  own  judgment  was,  that  Madeline  ought  not, 
in  her  weak  state,  to  be  cursed  with  the  presence, 
and  burdened  with  the  support  of  a  drunken 
and  unfepling  father.  For  this  reason,  she  kept 
away  from  Madeline — and  who  can  blame  her  ? 

With   the   poor  girl,  things   soon   assumed   a 
frightful  aspect.     Starvation  looked   her  in  the 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  51 

fiice.  She  was  so  weak  that  it  would  be  impossi- 
ble for  her  to  go  out,  and  Agnes  was  but  a  child. 

Yet,  child  as  she  was,  the  peculiar  circumstances' 
in  which  she  was  placed,  had  matured  her  mind, 
much  more  than  even  her  sister  supposed.  One 
morning,  they  arose  without  having  a  morsel  of 
food  to  eat.  Agnes  did  not  know  that  everything, 
money  and  all,  was  exhausted;  but  seeing  that 
Madeline  looked  paler  than  usual,  and  more  de- 
jected— and  thinking,  in  her  innocence,  that  this 
arose  only  from  bodily  weakness,  she  said — 

"  You  go  to  bed  sister,  I  will  make  up  the  fire 
and  boil  the  kettle,  and  get  breakfast.  I  can  do  it 
easy  enough." 

Tears  gushed  from  the  eyes  of  Madeline. 

"Don't  cry,  sister,  I  can  do  it,"  urged  the 
child. 

After  her  feelings  had  exhausted  themselves, 
Madeline  drew  Agnes  to  her  side,  and  explained 
to  her  that  all  their  money  was  gone,  and  that 
there  was  nothing  in  the  house  to  eat.  The  child 
looked  frightened  at  first — but  this  expression  gave 
way  to  one  of  thoughtfulness.  ;I 

"  I  '11  go  and  get  you  some  more  work,"  she 
said,  looking  up  earnestly  into  the  face  of  Made- 
line. 

"  I  have  some  work  here  that  is  not  yet  done, 
and  I  am  afraid  I  am  too  sick  to  do  it.  But  I  will 
try.  We  will  do  without  anything  to  eat  to-day, 
and  pei haps  by  to-night  I  will  be  able  to  finish 
this  work.  You  will  then  take  it  home  for  me, 
and  get  the  money." 

It  was  some  time  before  the  child  fully  under- 
stood the  meaning  of  all  her  sister  had  said-  -or 


52  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

rather,  could  comprehend  the  fact  that  they  were 


really  without  food,  and  that  there  was  but  little 
chance  of  their  obtaining  any.  She  saw  Madeline 
get  out  her  work-basket  and  try  to  sew.  She  also 
saw  that  in  a  little  while  her  face  became  as  pale 
as  ashes,  and  that  tears  were  coursing  over  her 
cheeks  when  she  laid  by  her  work  and  sunk  down,  ^ 

with  a  deep-drawn  sigh,  upon  the  bed.     That  she 
!•          had  a  duty  to  perform  to  this  sick  sister,  now  first 

crossed  the  child's  mind.  But  how  was  she  to  .  ? 
perform  it  ?  Earnestly  did  she  try  to  think,  and 
many  thoughts  came  with  the  effort,  but  the  more 
she  thought,  the  more  was  her  tender  mind  bewil- 
dered. At  last,  a  picture  of  what  she  had  seen  in 
the  street,  presented  itself,  and  words  that  she  had 
heard  uttered,  came  up  fresh  in  her  memory. 
Going  to  a  closet,  she  took  down  her  little  straw 


hat,  quietly  left  the  room,  and  passed   into  the 
street. 

She  walked  on,  looking  at  people  that  she 
passed,  timidly,  yet  earnestly,  for  one  or  two 
squares.  Sometimes  she  paused  as  she  approached 
a  foot  passenger  and  moved  her  lips  as  if  trying  to 
speak,  while  the  colour  mounted  to  her  face.  But 
no  one  noticed  her.  At  length  an  elderly  man, 
with  a  benevolent  countenance,  approached.  Him 
she  stopped,  saying,  in  sweet,  but  faltering  ac- 
cents :  "  Please  sir,  to  give  me  a  cent  to  buy  my 
mother  some  bread."  s 

The  benevolent  look  changed  into  one  of  stern 
reproof,  and  the  man  passed  on  without  a  reply. 
Poor  Agnes  felt  as  if  she  would  sink  through  the    .     \ 
pavement.      But   a  thought   of  Madeline    gave 
strength  to  her  young  heart.    The  next  that  she 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  53 

encountered,  was  a  group  of  three  or  four  young 
men,  who  came  along  laughing  and  chatting  gaily. 

"  Please,  sir,  to  give  me  a  cent,  to  buy  my  mo- 
ther some  bread,"  again  was  spoken  by  the  child. 

Three  of  the  young  men  were  about  passing  on, 
but  one  of  them,  touched  by  the  appearance  and 
>;  manner  of  the  child,  stopped,  and  said — 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  your  mother,  my 
dear?" 

"  O,  my  mother  is  dead,"  innocently  returned 
Agnes. 

"  Then  what  does  she  want  with  bread  ?"  said 


one  of  the  group,  and  all  laughed  heartily. 

"I  only  said 'so,"  was  the  confused  reply  of 
Agnes. 

"  Only  said  so !     What  a  little  liar  !" 


"  Hush  Bill !  You  shouldn't  speak  so  to  a  child," 
retorted  the  young  man,  whose  feeling  of  pity  had 
led  him  to  attend  to  her  petition,  while  the  others 
were  about  passing  on.  Then  addressing  Agnes, 
he  said — 

"  If  your  mother  is  not  living,  why  did  you  say 
that  you  wanted  money  to  buy  her  some  bread  1" 

"  I  only  said  mother,"  was  the  artless  reply — 
"  for  they  all  say  that.  I  want  to  buy  something 
for  my  sick  sister  to  eat.  We  hav'nt  had  nothing 
I  to  eat  since  yesterday.  Sister  tried  to  sew  this 
morning,  but  she  had  to  go  to  bed.  Please  give 
me  a  penny  to  buy  my  mo — " 

Truth  spoke  too  innocently  and  eloquently  to 
be  mistaken.  More  than  one  eye  was  wet.  Each 
of  the  young  men  gave  the  child  a  quarter  of  a  dol- 
lar, and  after  charging  the  little  thing  over  and 

5* 


54  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

over  again,  not  to  lose  the  money,  nor  to  let  any 
body  get  it  from  her,  passed  on. 

Agnes,  so  soon  as  they  left  her,  ran  back,  and 
went  into  the  store  where  she  had  always  gotten 
the  few  groceries  they  consumed.  Here  she  j> 
bought  a  small  quantity  of  tea,  a  loaf  of  breed, 
'half  a  pound  of  butter,  and  some  sugar,  and  then 
went  home. 

The  surprise  and  pain  of  Madeline,  when  she 
heard  from  the  child  what  she  had  been  doing, 
may  well  be   conceived.     It  humbled  her  still         ;> 
lower,  and  saddened  her  spirit  with  a  profounder 
sadness. 

From  that  time,  Agnes  procured  in  the  same 
way,  the  means  of  subsistence  for  herself  and 
Madeline.  This,  or  starvation,  was  the  choice. 
Deeply  was  Madeline  grieved  at  the  necessity,  and  ^ 
anxiously  did  she  watch  the  effect  of  this  exposed 
and  perverted  life  upon  her  innocent-minded  sis- 
ter. Happily,  no  vitiation  appeared.  Sometimes 
<  she  would  think  of  sending  her  to  the  Guardians 
of  the  Poor,  to  ask  again  to  be  received  into  the 
Alms-house,  but  the  expectation  of  still  seeing  her 
father,  and  of  making  his  lot  less  deplorable  than  •) 
it  must  be,  united  with  the  hope,  that,  in  a  little 
while  longer,  her  health  would  improve,  kept  her 
from  doing  this.  Thus  time  passed,  and  she  was 
sinking,  more  rapidly  than  she  imagined,  towards 
the  grave.  Instead  of  being  able  to  work,  as  she 
had  hoped,  she  daily  became  less  and  less  able  to 
move  even  about  the  room.  The  slightest  exer- 
tion overcame  her. 

Often  and  often,  did  she  think  of  the  kindness          ^ 
•he  had  received  at  the  hands  of  the  Matron  of  the          S 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  55 

Alms-house,  who  had  felt  a  real  interest  in  her ;  , 
and  often  did  she  wish  herself  once  more  under          £ 
her  judicious  care.     Both  for  her  own  sake,  and 
the  sake  of  Agnes,  she  would  gladly  have  gone 
back  again.     But  her  love  for  her  father  caused 
her  still  to  remain  where  she  was.     True,  Rachel 
<;          did  not  come  to  see  her.     There  was  no  one  to 

look  for  her  father ;  but,  then,  Agnes  was  in  the          J 
street  almost  every  day,  and  she  might  meet  with 
<;          him  sooner  or  later.     This  hope  caused  her  to  bear 
;>          all  present  ills,  with  patience  and  fortitude.  jj 

?  As  for  old  Mr.  Cameron,  on  escaping  from  the 

;;  Alms-house,  where  he  had  been  deprived  of  liquor, 
he  felt  the  necessity  of  getting  some  kind  of  em- 
ployment, in  order  to  keep  above  the  condition  of 
a  mere  vagrant,  and  to  secure  a  more  certain  and 
regular  supply  of  the  stimulating  poison  that  was 
so  sweet  to  his  taste,  yet  so  destructive  of  all 
bodily  and  spiritual  health.  For  a  short  time  he 
i>  held  the  situation  of  bar-tender  in  a  low  groggery. 
But  he  drank  so  freely  that  he  was  turned  away. 
After  that,  he  was  employed  to  open  a  store, 
sweep  out,  make  fires,  and  go  on  errands,  for  three 
dollars  and  a  half  a  week.  On  this  he  subsisted, 
after  spending  about  one-half  of  it  in  drink. 

Debased  as  the  old  man  had  become,  there  were          <; 
times,  when  less  under  the  influence  of  liquor, 
that  he  remembered  the  past,  and  thought  of  the 
present  condition  of  his  children  with  mental  an-          i 
guish   of  no  light  character.     He  believed  that 
^  i        Madeline   and  Agnes  were   still  inmates  of  the 
Alms-house,  where,  to  his  surprise  he  had  found 
them  on  being  taken  there.    The  effect  of  such  feel- 
ings was  to  cause   him  to  plunge   himself  still 

\ 


56  A  DAUGHTEK'S  LOVE. 

deeper  into  the  vortex  of  sensual  indulgence.  He 
would  drink  to  intoxication  in  order  to  stifle  the 
voice  of  an  upbraiding  conscience.  If  he  thought 
of  reform,  it  was  only  for  a  moment.  Reform,  in 
his  mind,  was  a  hopeless  thing. 

One  day,  as  he  was  about  entering  a  tavern,  a 
young  man,  whose  face  he  did  not  recollect,  step- 
ped before  him,  and  said, 

"  Don't  go  in  there,  Mr.  Cameron." 

The  old  man  straightened  himself  up,  and  said, 
fretfully, 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?" 

"  What  I  have  said,— don't  go  in  there.  It  is 
the  road  to  ruin." 

"  Do  you  wish  to  insult  me  ?" 

"  O,  no ;  I  would  not  do  that,"  replied  the 
young  man,  with  a  smile.  "  I  feel  too  strongly 
interested  in  you." 

"  In  me  ?    What  do  you  know  of  me  ?" 

"Hav'nt  you  a  daughter1?" 

The  old  man  started  at  this  question,  and  looked 
confused. 

"  You  have  two,  I  believe ;  one,  a  young  wo- 
man, and  the  other,  a  little  girl  not  more  than  six 
or  seven  years  old." 

"Suppose  I  have.  What  is  that  to  you?" 
Cameron  said  this  in  a  voice  meant  to  repulse  the 
young  man. 

"  Do  you  know  where  they  are  ?"  was  asked, 
without  the  interrogator  seeming  to  notice  the  old 
man's  manner.  J 

"  If  I  don't,  who  do  you  think  should  ?" 

«  Where  are  they  1" 

"  That  is  none  of  your  business,  sir."     As  Ca- 


r 

A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  57 

meron  said  this,  he  turned  away ;  but  the  young 
man  laid  his  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  whispered  in 


his  ear, 


"  They  are  not  in  the  Alms-house." 


The  old  man  sprung  round  quickly. 

"  Then  where  are  they  ?"  he  asked,  his  voice          !; 
showing  that  he  was  disturbed  by  the  last  remark 
of  the  stranger. 

"Come  from  here,  and  I  will  tell  you  all  1 


know."  ;> 

Cameron  followed  passively.  The  young  man 
walked  on  for  the  distance  of  two  or  three  squares, 
saying  something  now  and  then,  to  keep  down  his 
companion's  impatience.  At  length  he  stopped 
by  the  door  of  a  large  warehouse,  and  asked  Ca- 
meron to  walk  in,  and  sit  down  with  him  for  a 
little  while.  He  at  first  objected,  but  after  some 
persuasion  he  went  in.  They  were  then  alone, 
•;  and  removed  from  observation. 

"  Now  tell  me  what  you  know  of  Madeline  and 
her  little  sister,"  the  wretched  creature  said,  show- 
ing a  good  deal  of  interest. 

"  A  day  or  tvo  ago,"  began  the  young  man,  "  I 

>,         was  asked  by  a  sweet-faced,  innocent  child,  in  the 

street,  for  a  penny.     Struck  with  her  appearance 

and  manner,  I  made  a  good  many  inquiries  of  her, 

and  learned  that  her  name  was  Agnes  Cameron." 

"  Good  heavens !"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  sud- 
denly striking  both  hands  against  his  forehead. 
"But  go  on!  Goon!" 

"  '  Who  sends  you  to  beg  in  the  street,  my  little 
girl  V  I  said. 

"  '  Nobody,'  she  replied.     '  I  come  out  myself.' 

** '  What  causi?  have  you  to  beg  ?'   I  continued. 


58  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 

" '  Sister  is  too  sick  to  work.' 

"  '  Does  your  sister  send  you  out  ?' 

"  *  No.     She  don't  want  me  to  come.     But  1     .    \ 
w  11  do  it.      We  can't  get  money  any  other  way. 
I;  And  they  won't  give  us  bread  and  tea  and  sugar 

at  the  store,  without  the  money.' 

"  '  What  is  your  sister's  name  ?'    I  asked.  f, 

"  '  Madeline,'  "  she  replied. 

Cameron  groaned  aloud. 

"  These  are  your  children,  I  presume,"  said  the 
young  man.  ; 

The  pnly  reply  was  another  deep  groan.  Then 
followed  a  long  silence.  At  length  the  stranger 
said. 

"  Mr.  Cameron,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"  What !"  and  the  wretched  man  looked  up 
half-wildly.  "  Do  ?  What  can  I  do  ?" 

"  Become  a  sober  man,  and  take  care  of  your 
>,          sick  and  suffering  children." 

"  Sober !  I  can't  be  a  sober  man.  I  can't  quit 
drinking.  I  've  wanted  to  do  so  a  hundred  times, 
but  it 's  no  use  for  me  to  try." 

"  There  is  one  way.     Sign  the  pledge." 

"  It  wouldn't  be  any  use." 

"  Try  it." 

But  he  shook  his  head.  <; 

"  The  little  girl  I  questioned,  said  that  her  sister 
was  too  sick  to  sit  up  long  at  a  time.     From  what 
I  could  learn,  she  must  be  in  the  last  stages  of  a          •: 
consumption,  and  just  ready  to  sink  into  the  grave.          ;, 
Will  you  not  for  her  sake,  make  an  effort  ?     Will 
you  not  throw  one  ray  of  light  upon  the  last  hours 
\          of  her  life  ?     Oh,  do  not  say  no.     Come !     I  have          j> 
a  pledge  here.     Sign  it,  and  be  a  free  man      Sign 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  59 

it,  and  again  bless  the  hearts  that  once  loved  you- 
so  tenderly.  Sign  it,  and  snatch  your  innocent 
child  from  the  dangers  that  surround  her.  Let  it 
not  be  said  for  an  hour  longer,  that  Cameron's 
;  .  child  is  a  street  beggar  !" 

The  old  man  clasped  his  hands  together,  and 
$          looked  with  tearful  eyes  into  the  stranger's  face. 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  he  at  length  said. 

"  The  son  of  a  man  who  was  once  your  friend  and 

companion.     My  name  is  P .     Your  daughter 

Madeline,  I  have  often  met  in  other  and  better  ^ 
days  for  her.  Shocked  with  the  story  of  the 
I  child,  to  whom  I  gave  money  enough  to  keep  her 
off  of  the  street  for  a  week,  I  have  ever  since  been 
in  search  of  you.  And  now,  shall  this  search  be 
vain  ?  Do  not  say  no  !" 

"  There  is  no  hope  for  me — I  am  lost !"  was  the 
mournful  reply.     "  I  am  borne  down  towards  de- 
ll        struction  like  a  leaf  upon  the  stream." 

"  It  is  not  so,  I  tell  you.  You  may  reform. 
There  is  a  power  in  the  temperance  pledge,  of 
which  you  have  never  dreamed.  Sign  it,  and 
you  will  prove  the  truth  of  what  I  say.  Do  you 
not  wish  to  change  ?" 

•«  God  knows  that  I  do !" 


"  Here  is  the  way — hundreds  have  entered  it, 
and  are  now  walking  happily  therein.  Come,  and 
join  this  good  company.  You  will  never  repent 
It." 

Thus  urged,  the  old  man  took  the  pen  that  was 
offered  him,  and  with  a  trembling  hand,  after  the 
pledge  had  been  read  to  him  in  a  clear  and  solemn 
voice,  signed  it. 


"  You  are  free !"  ejaculated  the  advocate   of 


J 


60  A   DAUGHTER'S   LOVE. 

Temperance,  in  a  voice  so  glad  and  confident,  that 
it  thrilled  through  every  nerve  of  Cameron,  and 
inspired  him  with  a  like  confidence. 

"  Now,  sir,"  he  said,  "  tell  me  where  I  can  find 
my  children." 

"You  ought  not  to  see  them  as  ycu  now  are," 
was  answered.  "  Go  to  them,  when  you  do  go, 
with  change  written  on  your  dress  as  well  as  your 
face." 

"  But  I  have  nothing  except  what  I  have  on ; 
and  I  must  see  my  children." 

Young  P after  thinking  for  a  few  moments, 

proposed  to  employ  Cameron  in  his  store,  if  he 
were  willing  to  come,  and  named  a  salary.  The 
offer  was  accepted.  He  then  took  him  to  a  cloth-  £ 
ing  shop,  and  bought  for  him  a  suit  of  clothes. 
After  his  old,  soiled,  and  torn  garments  were 
thrown  aside,  Mr.  Cameron  said — 

"  Now  tell  me  where  I  can  find  my  children?" 

But  his  unknown  friend  still  objected. 

"  You  should  have  a  home  for  them.      Wait 
until  you  can  offer  them  a  home,  as  well  as  re- 
£          newed  affection." 


"  O,  sir !  Do  not  trifle  with  me !"  said  the  trem- 


bling  old  man.     "  I  am  weak — weak  as  a  child. 
I  have  just  stepped  upon  a  narrow  path  of  firm 
ground,  running  in  the  midst  of  a  dreadful  slough. 
A  little  thing  may  throw  me  off  again,  and  then  1          ;> 
am  lost,  lost  for  ever !     Take  me  to  my  children." 

This  was  said  with  real  anguish,  and  a  look  that 
touched  the  young  man's  heart. 

"You  shall  see  them,"  he  replied,  unable  to 
withstand  this  earnest  appeal. 

We  will  now  return  to  Madeline.    A  few  days 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  (51         ; 

previous  to  this  time,  Agnes  came  home  with  ten 

silver  half-dollars,  and  threw  them  on  the   bed 

j;          where  her  sister  lay.  ? 

;!  "  See  there !  see  there  !"  she  said,  clapping  hei          ? 

hands  and  jumping  up  and  down,  almost  wild  with 

delight. 

"  But,   Aggy,   dear !    where    did   these   come 
from?"  asked  Madeline,  with   a  half- frightened          \ 
look. 

"  Oh,  a  good  gentleman  gave  them  to  me,  and 
said  I  must  not  beg  again  for  a  week.     And  I  pro-          ^ 
mised  that  I  would  not." 

Madeline  closed  her  eyes,  and  lifted  her  heart 
in  thankfulness,  more  for  her  sister's  sake  than  her 
'?          own. 

"  Who  was  the  gentleman  ?"  she  at  length 
[1         asked. 

;>  "I  don't  know.     But  he  asked  me  my  name, 

and  your  name,  and  where  we  lived." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  ?" 

"  Yes."  \ 

Madeline's  heart  fluttered  for  a  moment  or  two.          ;> 
Then  it  again  grew  calm. 

"All  this  may  be  for  good,"  she  meekly  said. 

One,  two,  and  three  days  passed,  and  the  sick 
girl  seemed  to  be  growing  worse.  She  could 
neither  lie  down,  nor  sit  up ;  but  had  to  recline 
upon  pillows. 

On  the  third  day,  she  felt  a  little  better  after 
she  had  taken  a  cup  of  tea  in  the  morning,  pre- 
pared for  her  by  the  hands  of  Agnes.  She  tried 
to  sit  up  in  a  chair,  and  was  able  to  do  so,  without 
her  usual  faintness.  After  her  sister  had  cleared 


62  A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE. 


away  and  washed  up  the  breakfast  things,  and  put 
the  room  in  order,  she  said  to  her. 

"  Now,  Aggy,  get  your  book,  and  let  me  hear 
you  say  a  lesson." 

The  child,  who  had  been  learned  to  read  by 
Madeline,  took  her  book,  and  standing  by  the  side 
of  her  sister,  said  over  her  lesson.      They  were 
thus  engaged,  when  there  was  a  loud  knock  at  the          <; 
street  door,  which  was  presently  opened  by  some          ^ 
one  below.     A  few  words  passed  that  Madeline 
could  not  hear,  and  then  a  man's  foot  was  heard 
upon  the  stairs.     Her  heart  began  to  throb  wildly. 
The  footsteps  ascended.     She  knew  their  sound. 
^          The  door  opened,  and  a  well-dressed  man  stood  in         £, 
the  entrance. 

"  Father !"  she  exclaimed,  springing  up,  and 
starting  forward.  But  her  strength  failed  her, 
and  she  would  have  fallen  forward  upon  the  floor, 
had  not  Mr.  Camaron,  for  it  was  he,  caught  her  in  •; 
his  arms.  When  he  laid  her  upon  the  bed,  she 
was  pale  as  death,  and  unconscious.  For  some 
moments  he  wept  over  her,  and  then  turning  to 
the  frightened  Aggy,  took  her  in  his  arms,  and 
<!  kissed  her  over  and  over  again  with  a  thrilling 

emotion,  ever  and  anon  clasping  her  tightly  to  his         < 
breast. 

When  Madeline  recovered  from  her  temporary 
|>          suspension  of  thought  and  feeling,  her  father  was         <! 
<;     •      seated  by  her  side,  holding  one  of  her  hands  in         $ 
his.  >} 

"Am  I  dreaming?"   she   murmured,  looking 
eagerly  around. 

The  tone  m  which  this  was  said,  touched  the 
father's  heart  deeply.  < 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE.  63 

"  iNo,  you  are  not  dreaming,  Madeline,"  he 
said,  bending  over  and  kissing  her.  "  It  is  yoijr 
father  who  has  come  to  you,  and  who  will  nevei 
again  leave  you  to  want,  neglect,  and  sorrow." 

The   old  man's  frame  quivered,  and  the  tear*          j; 
gushed  from  his  eyes,  unbidden. 

But  we  must  draw  a  veil  over  this  scene,  les) 
our  words  fail  to  picture  it  truly.  ^ 

The  daughter's  love  had  its  full  reward.  Mr 
Cameron  is  still  in  his  right  mind.  He  is  pro 
viding  comfortably  for  Madeline  and  Agnes,  who 
are  happy.  But  Madeline  cannot  remain  long 
here,  she  is  sinking  slowly,  but  surely.  May  M 
cloud  darken  the  evening  of  her  departing  day ' 


THE  TEMPERANCE  TRACT. 


"Do  husn,  will  you,  Poll !  I  'm  sick  to  death  of 
your  eternal  preach — preaching.     Why  can't  you          ?, 
let  me  stay  at  home  in  peace,  when  I  want  to  ?" 

The  poor,  dejected-looking  creature,  to  whom  ^ 
this  was  addressed,  in  a  half  angry  tone  of  voice, 
by  a  man  past  the  prime  of  life,  but  whose  dis- 
figured face,  and  worn,  patched,  faded,  and  dis- 
coloured garments,  showed  that  he  had  lived  to 
little  good  purpose,  shrunk  away  and  became 
silent.  She  had,  in  one  of  those  more  sanguine 
moments,  when  even  the  drunkard's  wife  feels 
the  impulses  of  hope  stirring  in  her  bosom,  ven- 
tured to  speak  a  word  suggestive  of  reform.  It 
was  but  a  little  word,  and  spoken  with  hesitation, 
and  an  effort  to  throw  much  tenderness  into  the 
tone  of  her  voice.  But  it  was  met,  as  has  been 
seen,  by  a  quick,  impatient  repulse. 

Job  Williams,  that  was  the  man's  name,  whose 
selfish  indulgence  of  a  mere  sensual  appetite  had 
reduced  himself  and  family,  to  a  state  of  indigence 
and  degradation,  was  not  a  man  of  bad  temper,  nor 
disposed,  even  when  under  the  influence  of  liquor, 
to  quarrel  with  his  family,  or  personally  abuse 
them.  But  no  one  who  is  conscious  of  doing 
wrong,  and,  thereby  injuring  another,  likes  to  be 

64 


THE    TEMPERANCE    TRACT.  (ft  <( 

told  of  that  wrong  by  the  one  injured,  particularly 
if  he  have  not  resolution  enough  to  change  his          <J 
course  of  life.     Especially  is  a  drunkard  sensitive          s 
in  regard  to  his  wife — the  one  most  injured,  and 
the  one,  therefore,  who  has  most  cause  to  com- 
plain.    He  .cannot  bear  anything  from  her.     This 
was  Job's  state  of  mind.     Whenever  his  wife  said 
a  word,  he  grew  impatient,  and  generally  silenced 
her  by  a  reply  something  like  the  above. 

On  the  occasion  now  introduced  to  the  reader's 
notice,  Job  had  come  home  from  the  tavern  quite 
early  in  the  evening,  a  thing  unusual  with  him, 
for  he  had  gained  that  stage  in  his  downward  course 
at  which  he  could  find  no  pleasure  at  home,  for 

f.         home  presented  to  his'  eyes  too   many  rebuking          ;> 
images.     The  reason  of  his  having  left  a  place  so 
attractive  as  the  tavern  and  his  boon  companions, 
for  so  unattractive  a  place  as  home  and  his  sad- 

jj  faced  wife  and  neglected  children,  we  will  briefly 
state.  While  engaged  with  an  old  crony  in  a 
game  of  dominoes,  with  his  third  glass  half  emp-  > 

;j  tied  by  his  side,  the  door  of  the  bar-room  slowly 
opened,  and  a  thin,  haggard-looking  creature  en- 
tered and  glanced  slowly,  but  keenly  about  the  ^ 
room.  She  could  not  have  been  over  twenty-five, 
although  something  more  than  years  had  marked 
her  face  with  strong  lines,  thinned  her  young 
cheek,  and  caused  her  bright  eyes  to  shrink  far 
back  into  their  sockets.  Her  dark,  uncombed  hair, 
fell  in  tangled  masses  about  her  neck  and  shoulders, 
from  beneath  a  faded  bonnet  that  had  Once  been 
of  rich  material.  An  old,  much  worn,  and  soiled 
shawl  of  fine  Cashmere,  was  drawn  loosely  about 
ner  person,  and  seemed  to  have  been  thrown  on 

I  o.  i 


THE   TEMPERANCE   TRACT.  \ 

hurriedly,  and  without  any  thought  of  its  appear- 
ance.    Her  face  had  once  been  beautiful,  and  it 
still  bore  traces  of  loveliness,  which  not  even  the 
sad  change  that  suffering  or  crime  had  wrought,          ^ 
could  efface.      As  she  came  into  the  room,  she          ? 
paused,  and  looked  steadily  around  from  face  to 
face,  evidently  in  search  of  some  one. 

"  That  »s  Phil  Rigby's  wife,  I  declare !»  whis- 
pered the  companion  of  Job  Williams.  "  Deuce 
take  the  women !  why  dont  they  stay  at  home  ? 
If  my  wife  was  to  come  after  me  in  that  way  once, 
she 'd  never  want  to  do  it  again,  I  know!"  j; 

While  this  was  uttering,  the  individual  who  had 
entered,  and  whose  peculiar  appearance  instantly 
excited  the  interests  of  all,  continued  her  earnest          <; 
examination  of  every  face  in  the  room.     A  short, 
half-restrained   sigh,  or  rather   sob,  attested   her 
disappointment  on  concluding  this  scrutiny.     She          J 
then  walked  up  to  the  bar-keeper,  and  asked  in  a 
voice,  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  all,  if  Mr.  Rig- 
by  had  been  there  during  the  evening. 

"  Has   any  one   seen    Phil   Rigby,  to-night  ?" 
called  out   the   bar-keeper,   in   a  loud,  careless 
>         voice,    i  >; 

;j  « ]\V — "  No" — "  He 's  not  been  here  this  eve- 

ning," were   replied  from  various  parts   of  the 
room. 

With  a  disappointed   air,  the  yorng  creature 
turned  away,  and  walked  towards  the  door.    There 
she  paused,  as  if  but  half  satisfied  that  him  she 
f{         sought  was  not  there,  looked  slowly  and  steadily  > 

around  for  some  moments,  and  then  passed  out  of 
sight. 

"  Thunder  and   scissors  !   who 's   that  ?"   cr»ed 


\_-\--l-^. 


f. 

THE    TEMPERANCE    TRACT.  67 


£         the  tavern-keeper,  as  soon  as  the  apparition  had  . 

;j          vanished. 

"  That 's  Phil  Rigby's  wife,"  replied  one  of  the 
company. 

"Phil  Rigby's  wife!     Oh,  no.     That   cannot          , 
be !"  returned  another.     "  She  isn't  broken  down 
like  that,  surely.      Why,  five  years  ago,  when 

!;          Clara  Barker  married  Rigby,  she  was  the  loveliest          <f 
creature  I  ever  saw,  and  her  heart  was  as  light  as          '{ 

f,       .  the  wing  of  a  humming  bird,  as  Rigby  himself 
often  used  to  say.     Oh,  no.     You  must  be  mis- 

^          taken.     That  cannot  be  his  wife  /" 

"  Yes,  but  it  is,  though,"  persisted  the  other. 
"I  know  her  well  enough.     Rigby  has  thrown 

<;         himself  to  the  dogs,  and  reduced  his  wife  to  the          [> 

\         external  condition  you  have  just  seen.     What  the 
state  of  her  heart  is — how  it  appears — how  many 

<!         moss-covered  ruins,  or  sharp,  bare  fragments  of 

newly-shattered  hopes  are  there,  God  only  knows !" 

"  Hush,  will  you,  Shea !"  said  the  tavern-keeper 

pettishly,  to  a  short,  bloated,  tattered  specimen  of 

/          a  grog-shop  lounger,  who  had  risen  to  his  feet, 

warmed  into  eloquence  by  the  scene  that  had  just  $ 

passed,  and  his  recollection  of  the  better  days  of 
the  heart-broken  wife  who  had  just  turned  away, 
disappointed  in  her  vain  search  for  her  husband.  jj 

His   fine  broad  forehead,  and   brightly  sparkling 

!;          fyes,  showed  that  there  was  mind  and  fire  within 

him.     And  his  mellowed  voice,  as  it  rose  in  his          ;! 
expression  of  the  sentiment  just  uttered,  and  his 
chaste,  poetical,  strongly  enunciated   and  finely 
modulated  words,  indicated  his  power  over  lan- 

;!         guage  as  a  medium  of  communicating   thought. 
Indicated,  in  fact,  the  man  of  education  and  fine 

«;  5 


»W<"u-s^-./ 

68  THE   TEMPERANCE    TRACT. 

talents,  enslaved,  polluted,  degraded  by  habitual 
intoxication. 

The  tavern-keeper's  rebuke  did  not  have  its 
desired  effect.  Shea's  mind,  where  fire  slumbered 
as  in  the  flint,  had  been  struck,  and  the  sparks  had 
kindled  up  a  blaze  of  thoughts,  ideas,  and  images 
that  were  not  to  be  left  to  go  out  for  war>t  of  utter  ^ 

ance.  Turning  quickly  towards  the  man  who  hac 
imperatively  enjoined  silence,  he  eyed  him  foi 
a  moment  keenly  and  contemptuously,  and  then 
said: 

"  0  yes !  The  wolf,  as  his  fangs  entered  the 
tender  breast  of  the  lamb,  might  well  grow  indig- 
nant because  it  uttered  the  natural  language  of 
pain !  Or,  because  another  half  expiring  victim 
joined  in  a  wail  of  sympathy !  Hush,  will  you  ? 
fro !  I  will  not  hush .'" — And  the  excited  indi- 
vidual moved  towards  the  centre  of  the  room. 
"  While  we  stand  patiently  and  let  you  drain  away 


the  blood  that  animates  our  system,  it  is  all  well 


enough — but  when  our  exhausted  vitals  begin  to 
throb- — when  nature  reacts  upon  wrong  with  pain, 
and  we  cry  out,  we  are  commanded  to  keep  silence ! 
If  I  were  to  keep  silence  now,  the  very  stones 
.  would  cry  out !" 

As  Shea  said  this,  the  tavern-keeper,  whose 

^  face  had  grown  dark  with  anger,  strode  towards 
him  with  a  look  of  determination.  He  was  a  large 
ttrong  man,  and  could  have  handled  the  physically 

\          exhausted  inebriate  as  if  he  had  been  a  boy  of  ten. 

jl  But  Job  Williams,  and  two  or  three  others,  with 
whom  Shea  was  a  favourite,  and  who  had  been 
touched  as  he  had  been  by  the  entrance  of  the 
woman,  instantly  sprang  forwards,  and  ordered  the 


HIE    TEMPERANCE    TRACT.  69 


tavern-keeper  to  keep  his  hands  off  of  him  at  his    '       < 
peril.     Not  wishing  to  quarrel  with  so  large  a  > 

number  of  his  good  customers,  the  man  paused ; 
and  then  retired,  muttering  to  himself,  behind  his 
counter.  As  he  did  so,  the  half-sobered  individual,  ;> 

whose  natural  burst  of  sympathy  had  at  first  irri- 
tated him,  said,  stretching  forth  his  arm,  and  as- 
suming the  attitude  of  an  orator :  \ 

"  Look  at  that  poor  creature,  who  has  just  flit- 
ted before  our  eyes,  the  pale  mockery  of  what  she 
was  a  few  years  ago  !  I  knew  her,  when  inno- 
cence, beauty  and  love,  beamed  from  her  counte- 
nance. When  her  heart  was  a  mirror,  whose  clear 
surface  had  never  been  obscured  by  the  image  of 
anything  that  was  not  bright  and  lovely.  Look 
at  her  now ! — and  ask  yourselves  what  demon  has 
oreathed  upon  her  his  withering  breath  ?  Who 
has  blighted  the  sweet  blossoms  that  sprung  upon 
her  path,  and  strewn  along  the  way  she  has  now  ;> 

to  tread  with  naked  feet,  thorns  and  thistles,  and 
sharp  stones  to  lacerate  them  ?  It  is  the  Demon 
of  the  Still!  Yes,  fellow-sufferers!  the  Demon 
of  the  Still  has  wrought  this  ruin.  But  is  Clara 
Rigby  the  only  victim  ?  Alas !"  And  the  speaker's 
voice  trembled ;  but  came  up  full  and  clear  in  a 
moment.  "Alas!  Would  to  Heaven  it  were  so? 
But  I  know  one  darkened  hearth — one  house  made 
desolate — one  heart  more  than  crushed — aye ! —  ;> 

more  than  crushed — BROKEN  !  There  is  a  little 
mound,  covered  not  with  flowers,  but  the  long 
rank  grass  that  springs  up  wildly,  in  a  secluded 
enclosure,  close  upon  the  borders  of  our  city,  oe- 
neath  which  sleeps" — again  his  voice  trembled, —  ;> 

choked — but  rallied  once  more — "Sleeps,  did  I 


THE   TEMPERANCE    TRACT. 

say  ?  Yes,  thank  Heaven !  sleeps  sweetly  and 
unconsciously  now, — one  who  loved  me — yes, 
loved  the  effigy  of  humanity  you  see  here — and 
I  promised  solemnly  to  love,  cherish,  and  keep 
her  until  life's  last  sand  should  follow  its  fallen 
brethren.  Did  I  keep  that  vow?  That  grass- 
covered  mound  " — his  voice  sunk  into  a  low,  ex- 
quisitely touching  murmur — "  tells  the  sad  history. 
No !" — with  quictf,  reviving  energy ;  "  /  broke 
her  heart !  !  I  ? — No — no"  and  again  his  voice 
fell  into  the  same  tone  of  tenderness — "  it  was  not 
I !  I  loved  her  too  well !  But  the  Demon  of  the 
Still  possessed  me  fully,  until  I  became  a  mere 
automaton  in  his  hands,  and  he  wrought  the  ruin !" 

Just  at  this  moment  a  man  entered  hastily;  he 
was  one  of  the  nightly  frequenters  of  that  den  of 
pollution.  He  seemed  agitated. 

"  What  do  you  think  ?"  he  said  in  an  excited 
voice.  "  Phil  Rigb  f  has  drowned  himself!  They 
have  just  recovered  his  body.  I  saw  it  a  moment 
ago." 

This  intelligence  was  like  an  electric  shock  to 
each  one  of  that  company  of  inebriates,  for  there 
was  not  one  present  who  did  not  indulge  in  the 
vice  of  drinking  to  excess.  A  deep,  solemn,  thril- 
ling silence,  followed  the  startling  enunciation — 
startling,  coming  as  it  did,  upon  a  state  of  peculiar 
excitement.  This  was  broken  by  Shea,  who  said 
"n  a  husky  voice, 

"  It  was  rum  that  killed  him, — accursed  rum  ! 
Another  victim  has  fallen !  Whose  turn  will  it 
be  next  ?  God  help  us !" 

As  he  uttered  this  last  sentence,  in  a  tone  of 


THE    TEMPERANCE    TRAC     .  71 

deep  despondency,  his  feelings  broke  down,  and 
he  burst  into  tears. 

Williams,  who  had  been  startled  by  the  appa- 
rition of  Mrs.  Rigby,  and  much  affected  by  what 
Shea  had  said,  could  bear  no  more.     He  rose  up 
and  strode  hastily  out  of  the  tavern — an  example 
<j          followed  by  nearly  all,  leaving  the  landlord  and 
'/          his  man  alone  with  their  bottles,  and  their  not 
very  pleasant  thoughts.     It  was  nearly  two  hours 
s          earlier  than  Job  Williams  was  in  the   habit   of 
going  home.     To  return  fo  his  family,  would  very 
naturally  attract  attention,  and  of  all  things  Job 
disliked  to  have  his  wife's  attention  drawn  towards 
him.     And,  besides,  to  sit  for  two  long  hours  amid 
the  rebuking  evidences  of  his  wanton  abuse  of  his 
family,  was  an  ordeal  he  had  no  w\sh   to   pass 
^          through.     But  where  could  he  go  ?     He  had  no 

more  taste  for  the  pleasures  of  the  bowl,  that  night.          ;• 
The  thought  of  Rigby,  and  the  thought  of  his  own 
miserable   condition,  made  him  turn   from  these 
with  a  shudder.  f 

For  nearly  half  an  hour  he  wandered  about,  or 
stood  lingering  and  irresolute  at  the  corners  of  the 
streets,  reluctant  to  go  home,  and  yet  anxious  to 
shrink  away  there  and  hide  himself,  if  possible, 
even  from  his  own  thoughts. 

"  My  friend,  you  seem  to  be  in  trouble,"  said  a 
mild  voice  at  his  side,  as  he  stood  not  far  from  his 
miserable  abode,  in  this  undetermined  mood,  lean- 
's ing  against  a  post,  with  his  eyes  upon  the  ground. 
Williams  started,  and  looked  up.     A  stranger 
was  beside  him.     The  intrusion  worried  him,  and 
he  said  pettishly — 

"  1  didn't  tell  you  that  T  was"  — 


I  72  THE    TEMPERANCE    TRACT. 

"  There  is  a  language  as  easily  understood  as 
spoken  words,'*  replied  thfe  intruder  in  the  same 
mild  voice.  "  I  have  been  used  to  reading  that 
language,  and  am  never  deceived.  But  don't  be  J 
angry — I  want  to  do  you  good.  You  are  in 
'j  trouble,  and  I  can  help  you  out  of  your  trouble." 

"  Indeed  !"  returned  Job,  half  contemptuously  > 

"And  pray  what  ails  me?" 

"  What  once  ailed  me,  but  of  which,  happily, 
have  been  cured.     Do  you  understand  ?" 

"No!  how  should  I  understand7"  returned 
Job  impatiently.  ;> 

"  Too  much  drink.  That,  I  am  afraid,  is  the 
evil.  From  that  springs  your  present  trouble. 
Isn't  it  so  ?"  and  the  man  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
drunkard's  arm  familiarly. 

At  this  Williams  became  very  angry.  "I 
won't  allow  any  man  to  insult  me,"  he  said,  with 
as  much  sternness  as  he  could  assume,  turning  !> 
quickly  away  as  he  spoke,  and  striding  off;  not, 
however,  before  the  stranger  had  dexterously  slip- 
ped a  small  pamphlet,  or  tract,  into  his  pocket. 

"  That  may  do  some  good  in  a  sober  moment, 
perhaps,"  the  benevolent  individual  murmured,  as 
he  gazed  after  the  wretched  inebriate,  hurriedly 
s  escaping  from  his  well-meant   admonitions  and 

proffered  good  offices. 

"  The  devil  has  broken  loose  to-night,  1  believe  \n  .; 
muttered  Job  Williams,  as,  he  walked  on  in  the  ;! 
direction  of  home,  where  he  soon  arrived,  opened  .  !> 
the  door  without  pausing,  and  went  in.  His  wife,  ^ 
who  was  seated  near  a  small  stand,  and  engaged 
in  sewing  by  a  dim  light,  the  best  she  could  afford,  \ 
lifted  her  eyes  as  her  husband  entered.  Her  look  of 


THE    TEMPERANCE    TRACT. 


surprise  did  not  escape,  nor  fail  to  annoy  him.  But 
she  said  nothing,  and  he  seated  himself,  gloomily, 
in  a  far  corner  of  the  room.  ;> 

Poor  Mrs.  Williams's  heart  instantly  began  to 
beat  quicker,  her  hand  to  tremble,  and  her  bosom 
to  labour  oppressively.  For  her  husband  to  return 
home  at  that  early  hour  was  something  so  unusual, 
that  its  occurrence  plainly  indicated  some  change 
in  him,  whether  for  good  or  bad,  she  dared  not 
permit  herself  to  imagine.  Years  had  passed  away 
|>  since  he  had  been  pursuing  his  downward  course, 
and  often  during  that  long  period  of  trial,  had 
there  been  seasons  when  the  wretched  man  would 
pause,  and  resolve  to  change  the  whole  course  of 
his  life.  But  these  seasons  had  always  been  of  short  !> 
duration,  and  followed,  invariably,  by  relapses  into 
lower  and  more  degraded  states  of  abandonment. 
Notwithstanding  this,  and  the  longer  and  longer  !> 

r  '  «  o  j* 

ff  periods  that  intervened  between  these  lucid  mo- 
ments, they  never  occurred,  that  Mrs.  Williams 
did  not  permit  her  heart  to  grow  buoyant  with 
hope — soon,  alas !  to  sink  into  deep  despondency. 
It  was  now  more  than  a  year  since  her  husband 
had  shown  the  least  disposition  to  give  up  his  de- 
grading indulgence,  and  during  that  time,  he  had 
sunk  more  rapidly  than  ever.  He  had,  in  the  last  \ 
few  months,  grown  almost  entirely  regardless  of 
his  family,  leaving  upon  her  nearly  the  whole 
burden  of  their  suppout.  Wasted  and  weakened 
by  sickness,  privation,  and  toil  far  beyond  her 
strength,  Mrs.  Williams  found  her  increased  duties 
more  than  she  could  bear.  Daily  she  perceived 
that  her  strength  was  wasting  away,  and  that  she 
was  growing  less  and  less  able  to  perform  her 
7 


1 

74  THE   TEMPERANCE    TRACT. 

accumulating  tasks.    This  being  the  case,  her  mmd 

<f  caught  eagerly  at  even  the  feeblest  glimpse  of  a 

change  in  her  husband ;  and  in  spite  of  former          ;> 
disappointments,  she   soon  permitted  herself  to 

£  hope  that  his  earlier  retuin  was  a  good  omen. 

Buried  in  hir  own  troubled  and  accusing  thoughts,          \ 
Williams  had  remained  for  about  half  an  hour, 
when  his  wife,  anxious  to  know  his  state  of  mind,         ] 
ventured  to  say — 

"  Job,  won't  you  stay  home  now,  every  night  ? 
It  will  be  so  much  better,  and  I  know  you  will  be. 

!•          happier." 

It  was  this  that  called  forth  the  half-angry  re-         <; 
buke  with  which   our   story  opens.     As  it  was 

!>          uttered,  and  Williams  arose  to  his  feet  with  a 

ff  frown  upon  his  brow,  and  commenced  walking  £ 
the  floor,  his  poor  wife's  heart  sunk  heavily  in  her  [! 
oosom.  She  trembled,  lest  he  should  leave  the 

<!  house,  and  return  to  his  cups  and  his  companions, 
driven  there  by  what  she  had  said. 

Dropping  her  eyes  quickly  that  had  been  lifted 
,o  his  face  with  a  tender  expression,  she  resumed 
her  task.     In  a  little  while,  the  tears  blinded  her          ? 
so  that  she  could  not  see  to  guide  her  needle.        -\ 
Hard  had  been  her  struggle  to  repress  these,  lest 
the  sight  of  them,  as  they  had  often  done  before, 
should  cause  him  to  leave  the  -house.    To  prevent 
his  now  seeing  them,  she  turned  herself  partly 

5  from  the  light,  and  continued  to  move  her  hand 
backwards  and  forwards,  as  if  still  sewing,  although 
she  did  not  take  a  single  stitch. 

The  instant  Williams  had  spoken,  he  repented  of 
his  words.  Bui  he  could  not  recall  them,  though 
he  wished  to  do  so.  He  wis  not  prepared  to 


J 


THE   TEMPERANCE    TRACT.  75 

humble  himself  thus  before  his  wife,  nor  to  make 
the  promises  of  amendment,  which  she  would  of 
course  expect  him  to  make,  if  he  did  so.  He  kept 
his  eye,  however,  upon  her,  to  see  the  effect  of  5 

his  words.  Her  little  ruse  did  not  deceive  him. 
He  saw  that  she  was  weeping,  and  yet  doing  hex 
best  to  conceal  from  him  her  tears.  This  smote  s 

him  heavily,  and  caused  him  severe  self-reproaches. 
But  still,  he  could  not  take  back  what  he  had  said. 
He  was  not  yet  prepared  for  that — although  he          ^ 
wished  that  he  had  kept   silence,  or  replied   to 
her  words  in  a  less  harsh  manner. 

Nothing   further  was   said   by  either.      After          ,"> 
awhile,  Mrs.  Williams  regained  control  over  her 

'?  feelings,  and  went  on  with  her  work  in  a  more 
efficient  manner;  and  Job  resumed  the  chair  he 
had  left,  and  again  relapsed  into  a  gloomy  reverie. 
Thus  silently  passed  the  rest  of  the  evening,  when 

£  the  unhappy  husband  and  wife  retired  to  bed.  \ 
But  it  was  a  long  time  before  either  of  them  slept.  jj 
His  mind  was  excited  by  what  had  passed  in  the 
tavern,  and  as  he  had  not  taken  over  one  half  of 
his  usual  potations,  his  nervous  system  was  less 
inert  than  usual.  These  causes  combined  to  keep 
him  awake  many  hours,  during  which  time  thoughts 
that  he  in  vain  strove  to  shut  out  from  his  mind, 
pressed  themselves  upon  him,  and  racked  him  with 
consequent  self-reproaches.  While  his  wife,  from 
newly  awakened  hopes,  feeble  though  they  were, 
over  which  her  mind  brooded,  and  upon  which 
fancy  built  airy  castles  of  happiness,  was  alike 
unable,  until  a  late  hour,  to  find  rest  in  unconscious 
sleep.  At  last,  however,  both  their  troubled 
hearts  were  quiet. 


6  THE    TEMPERANCE    TRACT. 

;>  By  day  dawn,  Mrs.  Williams  arose,  and  after 

taking  up  and  dressing  her  three  youngest  children, 
fthe  rest  of  a  family  of  seven,  had  been  thrust  out 
into  the  world  to  provide  for  themselves  in  hard 
service  at  tender  ages) — prepared  their  frugal 
morning  meal.  Job  got  up  about  an  hour  after  his 
wife,  with  wretched  feelings.  He  eat  sparingly, 
for  he  had  but  little  appetite,  and  then  went  out. 
His  usual  direction,  when  he  first  left  home  in  the 
morning,  was,  by  the  nearest  route,  towards  the 
drinking  house  in  which  we  have  already  seen 
him.  This  his  wife  knew,  and  she  could  not  help 
looking  out  at  the  window,  to  see  whether  he 
would  take  this  direction  now.  The  feeble  ray, 
that  had  been  glimmering  in  her  mind  went  out, 
as  she  saw  him  turn  without  pausing,  in  the  old 

,  way  that  led  to  the  City  of  Destruction.  A  deep 
sign  struggled  up  from  her  bosom.  She  looked 
around  upon  her  meagerly-clad,  neglected,  abused 
children,  for  whom  she  had  again  permitted  her- 
self to  hope,  only  to  be  again  more  bitterly  dis- 
appointed ;  and  the  sight  melted  her  to  tears. 

"  Poor  little  ones !"  she  murmured,  as  she  seated 
herself  and  began  her  daily  toil.  At  this  moment 
the  door  was  opened,  and  a  child  entered,  who 
looked  as  if  she  might  be  about  eleven  years  of 
age.  She  was  coarsely  clad,  with  uncombed  hair, 
soiled  clothes,  and  dirty  skin.  Her  eyes  were  red 
and  swollen,  as  if  she  had  been  crying. 

"  Why  Julia !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Williams,  in  a 
tone  of  surprise,  as  the  little  girl  came  in,  "  What 
is  the  matter  ?  Why  have  you  come  home  ?" 


The  child  burst  into  tears,  and  while  still  weep- 
ing, showed  her  arms,  shoulders,  and  back,  which 


THE   TEMPERANCE   TRACT.  77 

were  of  a  dark,  angry  purple,  with  the  skin  here 
and  there  slightly  broken,  and  small  lines  of  blood 
distinctly  marked  in  various  places.  |> 

"  What  has  done  this  ?"  asked  the  mother,  for 

<          this  was  her  child,  in  a  voice  of  assumed  calm- 
ness. 

"  They  beat  me  almost  to  death,"  was  the  sob- 
bing reply. 

"  Why  did  they  beat  you,  Julia?" 
"  They  sent  me  to  carry  the  big  lamp  down  into 
the  kitchen,  and  I  fell  and  broke  it  all  to  pieces. 
And  then  they  beat  me  oh,  so  long!"  was  the          i> 

i;         artless  reply,  the  large  tears  continuing  to  roll 
over  her  young  cheeks. 

!>  With  an  emotion  that  she  could  not  control, 

the  mother  threw  her  arms  around  her  child,  and 

jl         drew  her  to  her  breast,  and  held  her  there  in  silent          ^ 
anguish  of  spirit.     What  could  she  say  1     What 

'<;         could  she  do  \ 

\  "  You  won't  make  me  go  back,  will  you,  mo- 

ther ?"  Julia  at  length  asked,  disengaging  herself 
from  her  mother's  arms.  "I  don't  want  to  go 
back.  They  will  whip  me  again,  for  coming 
away ;  and  I  don't  want  to  be  whipped  any  more, 
they  whip  me  so  hard — and  it  hurts  me  so  baa." 

"No,  my  child,  you  shall  not  go  back  there          J> 
again,"  Mrs.  Williams  replied  in  a  resolute  voice. 
"  13ut  won't   father  make  me  go  back  ?"  said 
Julia — "  You  know  he  made  me  go  there,  when 
you  didn't  want  me  to  go  ?" 

"  He  won't  make  you  go  back,  when  he  knows 
how  badly  you  have  been  treated" — was  the  mo- 
il        ther's  assurance,  although  she  had  little  expecta- 
tion that  h  er  child  would  receive  from  her  father 

i  7*  J 


j^»/W\ 


THE    TEMPERANCE   TRACT. 


any  consideration.      This  quieted  Julia's  mind 
Her  tears  ceased  to   flow,  and  she   felt  happier          \ 
by  her  mother's  side,  than  she  had  felt  for  many 
<>          weeks.  s 

i  In  the  meantime,  Job  Williams  walked  on  in 

the  direction  usually  taken  every  morning,  scarcely 
conscious  of  what  he  was  doing,  until  the  tempting 
signs  of  good  cheer  met  his  eye  as  he  looked  up, 
and  found  himself  within   a  few  steps  of  the          < 
tavern  he  daily  and  nightly  frequented.     Suddenly 
pausing,  he  said,  half  aloud — 
s  "Where  am  I  going1?  not  here,  surely!"  and 

turning  about  quickly,  he  retraced  his  steps  for 
about  half  a  square,  and  then  took  another  street. 
!>         Along  this  he  walked  for  some  distance,  with  his          <f 
eyes  upon  the  pavement.     At  last  he  turned  into 
an  old  frame  building  and  went  up  stairs.     Thia 
;>          was  a  large  cabinet-ware  manufacturing  establish-          <I 
!;          ment,  in  which  he  worked  a  few  hours  every  day,          ,' 
when  he  was  sober  enough  to  work.     It  was  the 
proceeds  of  this  labour  that  enabled  him  to  pay  for 
the  large  quantity  of  liquor  it  daily  took  to  quench          ;j 
his  inordinate  thirst.  j; 

"  Hallo,  Job !"  cried  one  of  the  workmen,  as  ' 
he  entered,  "  What 's  broke  loose  now  ?  Has  old 
Fleecetoper's  groggery  been  burnt  up  or  blown 
down,  that  you  are  routed  out  at  this  time  of  day  ?" 
Williams  made  no  reply,  but  went  to  his  bench 
and  commenced  work. 

"Why,  look  here,  old  fellow!"  said  another, 
with  some  surprise  in  his  tone  of  voice,  "I  heard 
you  were  pulled  out  of  the  dock  last  night,  dead 
as  a  herring.  Let  me  see !  Is  this  Job  Williams 
or  his  ghost7"  taking  hold  of  his  shoulders,  and 


THE  TEMPERANCE  TRACT.          79 

turning  him  roughly  around  as  he  spoke.  "  Veri- 
table flesh  and  blood,  as  I  live  !  And  so  it  isn't 
all  up  with  you,  as  I  supposed  ?  Well,  I  'm  glad 
of  it,  Job.  A  living  ass  is  better  than  a  dead  lion, 
any  day.  Ha!  ha!" 

"  Oh,  no,  it  was  not  Job  that  took  to  water,  a* 
last,"  interrupted  another,  "  it  was  Phil  Rigby." 

"Not  Phil  Rigby?"  said  one  of  the  former 
speakers. 

"  Yes,  Phil  Rigby.  He  was  away  from  home 
all  day  yesterday,  and  last  night  his  body  was 
discovered  floating  in  an  eddy  among  the  docks. 
Poor  fellow  !  he  had  the  best  heart  in  the  world !" 

"  To  abuse  and  beggar  the  sweet  girl  he  made  ; 

his  wife,  a  few  years  ago,"  was  the  reply  to  this. 
"  Don't  tell  me  that  a  man  who  will  do  that  has  a 
good  heart.  I  saw  her  in  the  street,  a  few  days 
ago,  shrinking  along,  as  if  afraid  to  be  seen  by 
some  old  friend  or  acquaintance,  and  the  change  s 
in  her  from  what  it  used  to  be,  made  me  sick  to 
think  about.  A  good-hearted  man  never  abuses  a 
lovely  woman  in  that  way." 

"Well!  well!"  retorted  the  other,  somewhat 
impatiently,  "  they '11  settle  that  matter  between 
themselves,  now,  I  suppose.  For  they're  both 
gone  the  same  road.  When  his  dead  body  was 
brought  in,  it  is  said  that  she  uttered  one  long, 
wild,  strange  cry  of  agony,  and  sunk  to  the  floor. 
She  never  spoke  again.  Long  before  midnight 
ihe  was  with  her  husband." 

"I  hope  not!"  ejaculated  a  workman  who  had 
listened  in  silence,  and  with  compressed  lips,  to 
what  had  been  said. 

"  Why  ?"  was  the  prompt  inquiry. 


80  THE    TEMPERANCE    TRACT. 

"  Drunken  husbands,  and  abused  wives,  don't  go         ? 
to  the  same  plaee,  it  is  to  be  hoped." 

No  one  replied  to  this, — the  only  remark  made, 
was  the  ejaculation,  as  the  'different  workmen  sep-          "$ 
arated  with  changed,  and  somewhat  saddened  feel- 
\          ings, 

"  Accursed  infatuation !" 

All  knew  Phil  Rigby  and  his  wife,  and  had 
kmown  them  for  years.    She  had  been  at  one  time 
J!          a  belle  among  them — and  a  particular  favourite.          ;• 
The  one  whose  emphatic   "  I  hope  not !"  with 


I 

;>          had  loved  her  devotedly.     But  she  had  declined 


his  subsequent  remark,  closed  the  conversation, 


1 

his  offer,  and  accepted  the  hand  of  Rigby.     He 
';          never  married.     This  fact  was  known  to  all — and 

this  was  why  his  words  were  received  in  silence.         ^ 
All  sympathized  with  him,  and  understood  his 
<          feelings.  \ 

|  Instead  of  leaving  his  work  several  times  during 

the  morning  to  go  out  and  get  a  drink,  Williams,         |; 
whenever  the  desire  for  liquor  began  to  be  felt,         ;j 
quenched  it  in  copious  draughts  of  water  from  the 
shop  can.     Although  he  did  this,  still,  there  was, 
in  his  mind,  no  settled  determination  to  enter  upon         ;> 
a  reform  of  his  evil  habit.     He  did  not,  in  fact, 
purpose  anything.    The  incidents  of  the  last  night 
had  startled  his  mind  into  a  new  and  vivid  per- 
>          ception  of  the  evils  of  drunkenness,  and  under  this         1; 
state,  rendered  more  impressive  by  the  clearer 
action  of  his  mind  upon  a  bor1/  not  stupified  by         ;j 
liquor,  he  refrained  from  pre<  ,nt  indulgence.    For 
t          the  future  he  had  no  pror.ises  to  make.     He  did 
not  definitely  resolve  to  r  .main  sober  a  single  hour. 
When  dinner  time  ca»  ,e,  he  laid  aside  his  tools, 


>vr\.-w%.*\ 


J 


THE    TEMPERANCE    TRACT.  81 


took  off  his  apron  and  put  on  his  tattered  coat, 
and  then  proceeded  homeward. 

Mrs.  Williams  had  waited  for  the  return  of  her 
husband  with  a  good  deal  of  anxiety.  She  could 
not  give  up  the  faint  hope  that  had  been  awakened 
in  her  mind  by  his  early  return  and  comparative 
sobriety  on  the  preceding  evening.  And  she  was, 
moreover,  anxious  to  see  what  effect  the  presence 
of  Julia,  and  the  knowledge  of  her  cruel  treatment 
would  have  upon  him.  If  he  should  come  home 
as  much  in  liquor  as  usual,  she  knew  that  she  ^ 
would  have  a  strong  contest  with  him  in  regard 
to  the  child ;  for  he  would  at  once  say  that  she 
had  been  careless,  and  bad,  and  deserved  all  she 
had  received — and  that  she  must  be  sent  back  £ 
again.  When  she  heard  his  footsteps  at  the  door, 
and  his  hand  upon  the  latch,  her  heart  almost 
ceased  to  beat.  He  entered,  a  single  glance  took 
a  mountain  weight  from  her  bosom.  He  had  not 
tasted  a  drop  since  morning  !  Her  eye  never  de- 
ceived her  in  regard  to  a  question  like  this.  It 
was,  alas !  too  well  educated.  The  presence  of 
Julia  caused  Williams  some  surprise,  and  he  asked 
why  she  was  at  home.  His  brow  slightly  con- 
tracted when  her  mother  related  the  reason  of  her  ff 
return,  and  the  pitiable  condition  in  which  she 
had  found  her.  But  he  said  nothing.  What 
could  he  say  ?  What  right  had  he  to  sa^  any- 
thing? A  state  of  sobriety  left  his  mind  too  clear 
in  regard  to  the  true  relation  he  bore  to  his  family,  \ 
to  permit  him  to  express  indignation  at  the  treat- 
ment his  child  had  received.  Had  he  been  less 
selfishly  given  up  to  a  base  indulgence  of  a  mere 
appetite,  that  little  girl  would  never  have  been 


82  THE    TEMPERANCE   TRACT. 

forced  out  among  strangers  at  so  tender  an  age. 
He  felt  this.  But  as  he  had  not  made  up  his 
mind  to  abandon  that  indulgence,  and  could  pro- 
mise nothing,  therefore,  he  said  nothing.  It 
would  have  been  but  the  mockery  of  words,  and 
he  was  too  sane  to  offer  this. 

After  dinner^  he  returned  to  the  shop,  and 
worked  until  night.  Then  he  came  home  again, 
still  sober ;  but  as  the  time  approached  when  he 
regularly  met  a  few  old  cronies  at  the  tavern,  to 
play  dominoes,  drink,  and  enjoy  some  lively  chit 
chat,  he  began  to  feel  the  usual  inclination  to 

?  meet  them.  Home  was,  at  the  best,  a  very  dull 
place.  There  was  nothing  there  to  interest  him, 
or  make  him  feel  at  all  comfortable.  After  sup- 

>  per  be  took  his  hat,  and  walked  out  as  usual.  To 
this  hour  his  wife  had  looked  with  peculiar  anx- 
iety. If  he  should  remain  at  home,  then  there 
would  be  some  surer  ground  of  hope.  But,  mind 

<;  and  body  both  sunk  down,  almost  nerveless,  as  he 
took  up  his  hat  and  went  out,  without  uttering  a 
word.  "  Despair  is  never  quite  despair."  There 

<;  was  still  something  left  for  the  poor  wife  to  build 
upon.  He  might  return  early,  as  he  had  done  on 
the  night  before,  and  as  then,  unstupified  by  drink. 

j;  But  hour  after  hour  passed,  and  he  did  not  come. 
The  loud,  hoarse  cry  of  the  watchman,  "  Past  ten 
o'clock!"  at  length  fell  upon  her  ear  like  the 

Ij          sound  of  a  death  knell. 

"All  hope  is  vain!"  she  murmured,  letting  her 
work  fall  into  her  lap,  and  pressing  one  hand  to 
her  aching  side.  But  a  thought  of  her  little  ones 

;>  — of  Julia's  bruised  and  lacerated  back,  —  soon 
aroused  her.  With  a  half-uttered  groan,  she 


THE    TEMPERANCE    TRACT.  83 

looked  for  a  moment  upon  the  poor  couch  where 
her  four  sleeping  children  were  huddled  together, 
and  then  resumed  her  toil,  though  her  head  and 
chest  ached  so  that  she  could  scarcely  endure  the 
pain. 

When  Job  Williams  went  out,  it  was  with 
the  intention  of  going  directly  to  the  tavern 
where  he  had  been  on  the  evening  previous ;  he 
had  walked  nearly  half  the  distance,  when  a 
thought  of  the  death  of  Rigby  passed  through  his 
mind,  and  caused  him  to  pause  suddenly,  as  the 
whole  scene  and  impressions  of  the  last  night  came  i 
up  before  him  with  startling  distinctness.  Slowly 
turning  off  by  another  street,  he  wandered  away, 
he  thought  not  whither.  He  was  more  wretched 
than  he  had  been  for  a  very  long  time.  For  nearly  ; 
an  hour  he  walked  first  down  one  street,  and  then 
up  another,  until  he  finally  came  back  near  to  the 
place  he  had  started  from,  more  than  half  resolved  ^ 
to  go  to  the  tavern,  as  he  had  first  intended,  and 
take  at  least  one  glass,  to  make  him  feel  better. 
Habit  and  inclination  prevailed.  He  reached  the 
door  of  the  drinking  house,  and  entered  without 
allowing  himself  time  to  reflect.  Here  he  found 
nearly  the  same  company  with  whom  he  had 
mingled  on  the  previous  evening.  Shea,  too,  was 
there,  notwithstanding  the  warning  death  of  his 
friend  and  his  friend's  wife,  and  the  sentiments  he 
had  poured  forth  on  the  night  before.  And  not- 
withstanding the  little  breeze  that  had  sprung  up 
between  the  tavern-keeper  and  some  of  his  cus- 
tomers, that  individual  was  as  smiling,  as  jocular, 
and  as  attentive  as  ever. 

Williams,  Shea,  and  three  others,  then  present, 


JJ-\^.-\.-_f- 

84  THE    TEMPERANCE    TRACT. 

usually  took  a  glass  together,  in  a  small  room  ad- 
joining the  bar,  every  evening,  and,  there  chatted 
and  smoked  for  an  hour,  replenishing  their  glasses 
in  the  mean  time,  as  often  as  they  deemed  it  ne- 
cessary. Into  this  they  all  now  retired,  ordering, 
as  they  did  so,  cigars  and  a  bottle  of  ale  a-piece. 
As  they  entered  this  room,  Williams,  in  taking 
his  handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  drew  out  some 
thing  which  fell  to  the  floor,  and  was  instantly 
picked  up  by  Shea. 

"  Hallo !  what 's  this,  Job  ?"  he  said,  as  he  lifted 
a  small  pamphlet. 

"  I  'm  sure,  I  don't  know — where  did  it  come 
from  ¥> 

"  Out  of  your  pocket." 

"  No,  I  reckon  not." 

"  Yes  it  did,  though.  I  saw  it  drop  this  moment." 

"  I  didn't  put  it  there,  then,  that 's  all  I  've  got 
to  say ;  but  what  is  it,  any  how  ?" 

"  Let  me  see."  And  Shea  held  it  to  the  light, 
and  read — "  A  voice  from  the  Alms  House  /" 
"  The  devil!  Well,  as  I'm  on  that  road,  I  should 
like  to  learn  what  this  voice  says.  What  say  you, 
gents  ?  Suppose  I  read  it  for  the  information  of 
all.  I  believe  we  are  alike  candidates  for  gradua- 
tion at  that  school,  and  therefore  interested." 

No  objection  being  made,  Shea  drew  up  to  a 
light,  opened  the  pamphlet,  and  commenced  read- 
ing aloud.  It  proved  to  be  a  temperance  tract, 
containing  a  temperance  narrative  or  story ;  but 
this  did  not  appear  in  the  first  of  it,  so  that  before 
its  drift  was  discovered,  the  whole  party  had  be- 
come so  much  interested,  as  not  to  be  driven  off 
oy  its  gradual  development  of  facts  and  sentiments 

fc-WWU'WW 


\ 

THE    TEMPERANCE    TRACT.  85  f 

tearing  very  hard  upon  them  and  the  life  they 
were  leading.  Strange  to  say,  the  bottles  of  ale 
which  had  been  brought  in  some  time  after  the 
story  was  commenced,  remained  untouched, 
while  each  ear  drank  in  the  exciting  narrative, 
which  was  read  with  fine  effect  by  Shea.  The 
reading  of  it  consumed  more  than  half  an  hour. 
When  the  last  leaf  was  turned,  Job  Williams,  said, 
rising  to  his  feet  and  wiping  his  eyes, 

"  Well,  after  all,  ain't  we  a  set  of  most  cursed 
fools !  I  wish  I  had  died  before  I  ever  saw  a  glass 
of  liquor!" 

"  Amen  to  that !"  responded  one  of  the  party. 

Another  lifted  a  little  bell  and  rung  it  in  a  do-      ,    jj 
cided  manner. 

"  Take  away  these  bottles  and  glasses,"  he  said 
to  the  bar-tender,  who  had  instantly  obeyed  the 
call. 

No  one  opposed  this  order.     In  a  little  while          ^ 
the  table  was  cleared,  and  they  all  sat  round  it 
looking  at  each  other  with  serious  faces. 

"  And  now,  what  is  to  be  done  ?"  asked  Wil- 
liams. 

"  Take  another  road,"  replied  Shea.  "  I  don't 
like  the  sound  of  that  '  voiced  " 

"Which  road?" 

"  To  Jefferson  Hall,  and  sign  the  pledge." 

"  Agreed,"  fell  as  one  voice  from  every  lip. 

"  Come  then !"  and  Shea  arose  and  led  the  way. 
All  arose  likewise,  and  all  followed  him,  unhesi- 
tatingly, not  only  from  that  little  room,  but,  in 
silent  procession,  from  the  house.  No  word  was 
spoken,  as  they  marched  with  a  determined  air  on 
the  road  they  had  chosen  to  go.  A  brisk  walk  of 
8 


THE    TEMPERANCF.    TRACT.  4 

t  J» 

ten  minutes  brought  them  to  Jefferson  Hall. 
Without  pausing  they  entered,  asked  for  the  sec- 
retary, took  the  book,  and  each  signed  his  name, 
with  a  resolute  hand,  to  a  pledge  of  total  absti 

\          nence. 

"  Redeemed,  emancipated,  and  disenthralled !" 
shouted  Shea,  in  a  clear,  glad,  eloquent  voice,  as 
the  last  name  was  signed.  "Thank  Heaven!  I 
feel  like  a  man  again." 

<",  This  expressed  not  his  feelings  alone,  but  the 

;>          feelings  of  all.     It  was,  to  each  one  of  that  little          •! 
company,  a  happier  hour  than  had  been  experi- 

ff          enced  for  years. 

;>  Mrs.  Williams,  as  we  have  seen,  resumed  her          <! 

wearying  toil,  with  pain  in  her  head  and  chest, 
and  a  severer  pain  in  her  heart,  after  a  brief 
struggle  with  her  feelings  on  bidding  adieu  to  the 

\          last  glimmer  of  her  newly  awakened  hope.     She         ^ 
had  bent  down  over  her  work  only  a  few  moments, 
when  the  door  opened,  and  her  husband  entered. 
She  only  half  glanced  towards  him,  for  she  did 
not  wish  to  look  upon  the   confirmation  of  her          <; 
worst  fears.     He  was,  of  course,  intoxicated,  as 

•I          he  always  was,  when  he  came  in  at  that  hour.         ,s 
Still,  she  was  more  agitated  than  usual,  and  her 
hand  trembled  so  that  she  could  scarcely  hold  her 
needle.     For  a  moment  or  two  he  stood  behind 
her.     But  she  did  not  turn  towards  him.     Then          J! 
he  took  a  chair,  and  placed  it  close  beside  hers. 
This  caused  her  to  lift  her  eyes  suddenly,  and  with 
surprise.  \ 

"  Look  at  that,  Polly,"  he  said,  handing  her  a 
piece  of  paper,  as  he  seated  himself  in  the  chair 
—  "  and  tell  me  what  you  think  of  it." 


L 


THE   TEMPERANCE    TRACT. 


It  was  his  pledge. 

The  startled  wife  reached  out  ,and  eageily 
clutched  the  paper,  with  her  trembling  hands. 

"  God  in  Heaven  be  praised !"  she  ejaculated, 
as  her  distended  eyes  took  in  its  meaning,  sinking 
nervelessly  forward  upon  the  table  by  which  she 
sat. 

"  Yes,  let  Him  be  praised,"  Williams  returned 
solemnly ;  "  for  his  hand  is  in  it." 

Enough  has  now  been  told.     The  reader's  ima- 
gination can  svpply  the  rest.     The  fire  that  came          ^ 
<!          suddenly  down  upon  that  darkened  and  desolate          <; 
hearth,  did  not  again  go  out.     There  is  warmth 
and  light  there  still — happy  hearts  and  cheerful 
face*. 


1  i 

WHAT  SHALL   I   DO? 


?  * 

•*  You  won't  go  out  this  stormy  evening,"  Mrs.         <; 
Merrill  said  to  her  husband,  who  had  commenced 
putting  on  his  overcoat. 

"  If  I  can  do  any  good,  I  shall  not  care  for  the 
rain,"  Mr.  Merrill  replied,  cheerfully,  as  he  but- 
toned his  coat  up  close  to  his  chin. 

"  But  the  wind  drives  the  rain  so.  You  will 
be  wet  through." 

"No  matter.     I  am  neither  butter  nor  salt," 
smilingly  returned  the  husband.  "  Don't  you  re- 
member that  it  was  just  such  a  night  as  this,  two 
';          years  ago,  that  a  good  Samaritan  picked  me  up  in 
the  street,  and  took  me  to  Union  Hall  ?" 

!The  tears  were  glistening  in  the  eyes  of  the          I; 
wife  as  she  replied, 

"  Go,  Harry,  if  you  think  you  can  do  any  good. 
I  should  be  the  last  to  object." 

Mr.  Merrill  kissed,  tenderly,  the  cheek  of  his 
wife,  who  was  still  in  the  bloom  of  young  woman- 
hood, and  then  taking  his  hat  and  cane,  went  forth.          £ 
I;          It  was  indeed  a  stormy  night.     The  wind  came  f, 

rushing  along  with  a  dismal  howl,  and  the  rain 
fell  heavily.  But  few  persons  were  in  the  street, 
and  they  were  hurrying  homeward,  anxious  to 
escape  the  war  of  elements. 

I  •      i 


r* 

WHAT   SHALL   I   DO?  89 

"  The  storm  is  heavy,  sure  enough.  I  shall  not 
find  many  at  the  Hall,"  Merrill  said,  half  aloud, 
as  he  walked  quickly  along.  His  way  was  through 
a  part  of  the  town  inhabited  by  persons  of  the 
poorer  class.  In  almost  every  block  of  this  section, 
were  to  be  found  one  or  two  little  taverns,  with 
either  a  glaring  red  curtain,  or  an  inviting  trans- 
parent sign,  telling  of  the  good  cheer  within. 
From  many  of  these  was  heard  the  loud  laugh,  or 
the  bacchanalian  song,  and,  as  they  fell  upon  the 
ear  of  Merrill,  he  sighed  for  his  infatuated  fellow 
;I  .  men,  who  sought  brief  and  exciting  sensual  plea- 
sures, at  the  expense  of  health,  character,  and  !> 
happiness.  Sometimes  he  would  pause,  half 


tempted  to  go  in  among  them,  and  beseech  them  , 
to  stop  in  their  career  of  folly,  ere  it  was  too  late. 
But  the  recollection  of  several  fruitless  efforts  of 
the  kind,  caused  him  to  forbear. 

Just  about  the  time  that  Merrill  left  his  house, 
a  little  scene  was  passing  in  an  humble  tenement, 
that   stood  directly  in   his  way  to   Union  Hall, 
\         whither  he  was  going.     To  a  spectator  acquainted 
with  all  the  circumstances,  that  scene  would  have 
been  a  very  affecting  one.     There  was  a  sick  child 
upon  a  be.*3.,  and  the  father  and  mother  standing 
<",         beside  it.     The  mother  looked  anxious  and  care- 
worn ;  the  father's  face  had  a  trouble  1  expression. 
All  around  indicated  poverty. 

"Her  fever  is  much  higher.  It  has  increased 
rapidly  during  the  last  hour,"  said  the  mother, 
looking  earnestly  in  her  husband's  face. 

"  Hadn't  I  better  go  for  Dr.  R *» 

"Hetty  is  very  sick.      But  we  havnt  settled 

8* 


90  WHAT   SHALL    I    DO  ? 


the  last  bill  yet,  and  I  don't  like  to  see  Dr.  R 
until  that  is  paid." 

The  husband  said  nothing  in  reply  to  this,  but 
stood  looking  down  upon  his  sick  child,  with 
something  stupid  in  his  gaze.  At  length  the 
young  sufferer  began  to  toss  about,  and  moan,  and 
show  painful  symptoms  of  internal  distress. 

"I'm  afraid  she's  dangerous,"  murmured  the 
mother. 

"  I  will  go  for  the  doctor.  We  cannot  see  our 
child  die,  even  if  his  bill  is  not  paid."  As  the 
father  said  this,  he  took  up  his  hat,  and  moved 
towards  the  door. 

"It  storms  dreadfully,  James,  and  we  have  no 
umbrella." 

The  wife  laid  her  hand  upon  her  husband's  arm, 
and  spoke  earnestly. 

"  No  matter.  I'm  not  afraid  of  the  rain.  I've 
stood  many  a  worse  night  than  this." 

"  Suppose  you  wait  awhile,  James.     Perhaps 
she  will  be  better."     And  the  wife's  hand  still 
!;          rested  on  her  husband's  arm.     "I  don't  like  to 
have  you  go  out." 

"  O,  that 's  nothing.  I  don't  care  for  the  rain. 
Hetty  is  very  ill,  and  we  ought  to  call  in  the  doc- 
tor by  all  means." 

Seeing  that  he  was  in  earnest  about  going,  she          •', 
said,  looking  with  a  tender,  half-imploring  expres- 
sion into  his  face — 

"  You  '11  come  right  back  again,  James  ?" 

"  Certainly  I  will.  Do  yew  think  I  'd  remain 
away,  and  Hetty  so  sick  ?" 

"Well,  do  come  home  as  quick  as  you  can, 
And  don't  stop  anywhere, — will  you  ?" 


WHAT   SHALL   I   DO  ?  91 


"  No  —  no.    Never  fear." 

And  he  went  out,  leaving  the  mother  alono  with 


;'          her  sick  child. 

Without  pausing  an  instant,  he  pursued  his;  way 
steadily  along,  bowing  his  head  to  the  pelting 

5          storm,  and  sometimes  cringing,  as  the  fierce  gusts 

drove  suddenly  against  him.   In  about  ten  minutes          ;> 
he  reached  the  doctor's  office,  and  found  him  ab- 

;  sent,  but  expected  in  momently.  He  sat  down, 
dripping  with  wet,  to  await  his  return  ;  but  soon 
grew  restless. 

;>  "I  '11  come  back  in  a  few  minutes,"  he  at  length 

said  to  the  attendant,  rising  and  going  out.  Again 
on  the  street,  he  seemed  irresolute.  At  first  he 
stood  thoughtfully,  and  then  moved  on  a  few  paces. 
There  was,  evidently,  a  struggle  going  on  in  his 
mind.  Some  propensity  was  pleading  hard  for 
indulgence,  while  reason  was  arguing  strongly  on  £ 
the  other  side.  This  debate  continued  for  some 
time,  he  walking  on  for  a  short  distance,  and  then 
stopping  to  reflect,  until  he  found  himself  in  front 
of  a  small  tavern,  with  a  tempting  display  of 
liquors  in  the  window. 

"  I  '11  take  just  one  glass,  —  and  no  more,"  he 
said,  to  himself. 

"  But,  you  know,  if  you  touch  a  drop,  you  will 
never  leave  that  house  sober,"  spoke  a  voice  within 
his  own  bosom. 

This  made  him  hesitate.  But  a  depraved  appe- 
tite urged  him  on  to  self-indulgence,  and  he  was  »  >' 
about  placing  his  hand  upon  the  door  to  enter, 
when  the  image  of  his  sick  child  came  up  before 
him  so  vividly  that  he  started  back,  uttering  aloud, 
in  the  sad  consciousness  of  inability  to  struggle 


92  WHAT   SHALL   I   DO? 

against  the  fierce  thirst  that  was  overpowering 


him— 


J 

"What  shall  I  do?"  j; 

As  he  said  this,  a  hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoul- 
der, and  a  voice  said — 

"  Sign  the  pledge." 

The  man  turned  in  surprise.  Our  friend  Mer- 
rill stood  before  him. 

"  Come  with  me,  and  I'll  tell  you  what  to  do,"         J 
he  said,  in  a  cheerful,  encouraging  voice. 
j;  "  It 's  no  use.     I  can't  keep  it,"  was  despond- 

ingly  answered.  > 

"  But  you  can  keep  it.  I  '11  go  bond  for  that. 
Hundreds,  nay,  thousands,  have  done  so,  and  I  am 
sure  you  will  not  be  the  only  exception.  So  come 
along.  I'm  just  on  my  way  to  Union  Hall,  and 


'<(          have  the  pledge  book  here  under  my  arm." 

"  My  child  is  sick,  and  I  must  go  for  the  doctor." 
"What  doctor?" 

"  Doctor  R ." 

"Just  in  the  way.  It  won't  take  you  three 
minutes." 

"  If  I  thought  there  was  any  use  in  it.  But 
I  've  tried  to  reform  too  many  times.  I  can't  do 
it.  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  too  far  gone.  Heaven  help 
me !  What  shall  I  do  ?" 

There  was  something  very  desponding  in  the 
\          man's  voice  as  he  spoke. 

"Don't  listen  for  a  moment  to  such  sugges- 
tions," returned  Merrill.     "  They  are  from  an 
!;  enemy.     If  you  have  tried  to  reform  and  failed 

in  the  attempt,  it  is  because  you  have  not  tried 
m  the  right  way." 
<  He  had  already  drawn  his  arm  within  that  of 

1  j 


WHAT    SHALL    I    DO  ?  93 

Hie  poor  desponding  drunkard,  and  they  were 
walking  away  from  the  charmed  spot  that  had 
well  nigh  proved  fatal  to  a  wavering  resolution. 

"  Last  Thursday  night,"  Merrill  went  on  to  say, 
"  no  less  than  twenty  signed  the  pledge,  and  at 
least  five  of  them  were  more  deeply  enslaved  than 
I  can  believe  you  to  be.  We  found  them  in  the 
street,  and  brought  them  in,  and  now  they  are 
sober  men,  and  will  remain  so.  It  appears  like  a 
miracle ;  but  we  have  seen  hundreds  and  hundreds 
of  such  miracles.  They  are  occurring  every  day." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  Hall,  and 
Merrill,  pausing,  said, 

."  This  is  the  place.  Come  in  with  me  and  sign 
the  pledge,  and  you  are  safe." 

<  But  the  man  held  back.    The  thought  of  giving 

up  his  liberty — of  binding  himself  down  by  a 
solemn  pledge,  not  even  to  taste  a  drop  of  the 
pleasant  drink  that  was  so  sweet  to  his  lips,  made 
him  hesitate.  The  pleadings  of  appetite  for  a 
little  more  indulgence  was  strong. 
j|  "  You  are  teetotallers  ?"  he  at  length  said. 

"Certainly.  Our  pledge  covers  the  whole 
ground,"  Merrill  replied.  "For  such  as  you, 
there  is  no  hope  but  in  total  abstinence.  Do  you 
think  it  possible  for  you  to  drink  a  glass  of  wine, 
beer,  or  cider,  without  having  your  desire  for 
stronger  liquors  so  excited  as  to  render  your 
further  abstinence  impossible?  Think!  Have 
you  never  tried  to  'regulate'  yourself?" 

"  0,  yes.     Many  and  many  a  time !" 

"  You  have  tried  two  glasses  of  beer  a  day  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  before  three  days  were  intoxicated  *" 


04  WHAT   SHALL    I   DO  ? 

"  It  is,  alas !  too  true.     Sometimes,  in  an  hour 
$          after  I  took  the  first  glass  of  beer." 

"Then  it  must  be  total  abstinence,  or  nothing, 
In  this  lies  your  only  ground  of  safety.     Comfc9          < 
then,  and  put  your  hand  to  the  pledge  that  makes 
you  a  freeman.     Come !     The  rain  is  drenching          ',; 
us  to  the  skin  while  we  stand  here.     Come,  sign 
at  once,  and  go  home  with  medicine  for  your 
child  and  joy  for  the  heart  of  your  poor  wife. 
Come,  my  friend.      Now  is  the   great  turning 
point  in  your  life.     Health,  prosperity,  happiness 
are  welcoming  you  with  smiles  on  one  side ;  sick- 
ness, poverty,  and  wretchedness  are  on  the  other. 
Just  two  years  ago  I  stood  on  this  very  spot,  urged 
as  I  am  now  urging  you  to  sign ;  I  yielded  at  last,         "? 
and  have  been  prospered  ever  since.  I  have  plenty 
at  home,  and  plenty  with  content.     Before,  all 
was  wretchedness.    Come  then,  my  friend — come         \ 
with  us,  and  we  will  do  thee  good !" 

"Yes,  come,"  said  a  third  person,  pausing  at 
•;          the  door  of  Union  Hall,  just  at  the  moment  and         \ 
taking  hold  of  the  poor  man's  arm. 

The  slight  impulse  of  the  hand  upon  his  arm, 
decided  his  wavering  resolution.  He  went  in 
with  them,  and  going  up  between  them  to  the 
secretary's  desk,  put  his  hand  to  the  pledge. 

"  There  is  joy  in  heaven  over  one  sinner  that 
repenteth,  more  than  over  ninety-nine  just  persona 
that  need  no  repentance,"  said  the  president  of  the 
meeting  in  a  serious  voice.  "  My  friend,  you 
have  all  Heaven  on  your  side,  for  Heaven  is  on 
!>  the  side  of  good  resolutions.  Look  up  and  be 
strong.  They  that  are  for  you  are  more  than  all 
who  ace  against  you." 


WHAT   SHALL   I   DO  7 

-  A  thrill  of  pleasure  ran  through  the  soul  of  the 
redeemed  inebriate,  such  as  he  had  not  known  for 
a  long,  long  time.  He  left  the  Hall,  feeling  more 
like  a  man  than  he  had  felt  for  six  years,  and  hur- 
ried away  to  the  office  of  Dr.  R .  The  doctor 

was  in,  but,  at  first,  seemed  little  inclined  to  go  out 
on  so  stormy  a  night,  especially  to  visit  the  family 
of  a  man  who  drank  up  his  earnings  and  neglected 
;>          to  pay  his  bills. 

"  I  will  call  round  in  the  morning,  Simpson. 
It  rains  too  hard  to-night." 

"  But  my  little  girl  is  very  sick.  She  might 
die  before  morning." 

"  Xo  danger.     I'll  be  round  early." 

"  But  doctor,  I  wish  you  would  see  her  to-night. 
We  feel  very  much  troubled." 

"  No  doubt,"  the  doctor  returned,  a  little  petu- 
lantly. "  You  are  anxious  enough  to  see  me  when 
anything  is  the  matter ;  but  as  soon  as  all  is  straight 
again,  I  'm  never  thought  of." 

"  But  you  shall  be  thought  of,  doctor.  I  know 
I  have  not  treated  you  well ;  but  hereafter  you 
shall  not  have  cause  to  complain." 

"I  don't  know,  Simpson.  Men  like  you  are 
always  full  of  fair  promises.  But  a  sight  of  the 
next  tavern  makes  you  forget  them  all." 

"I  know — I  know.  But  there'll  oe  nothing 
more  of  that.  See !"  And  he  drew  from  his 
bosom  a  neatly-folded  paper,  and  handed  it  to  the 
doctor,  who  took  it  and  glanced  his  eye  over  itg 
rx>ntents. 

"  Ha !     What  is  this  ?     A  pledge  ?» 

"Yes,  doctor." 

"  When  was  this  done  ?" 


96  WHAT   SHALL    I   IX)  ? 

"  To-night.    Not  ten  minutes  ago." 

"  And  are  you  really  in  earnest,  Simpson  1n 

"  I  feel  like  dying  by  that  pledge.  It  was  hard 
to  take;  but  now  that  it  is  taken,  I  will  never 
violate  it.  I  feel  that  I  can  stand  by  it  like  a 
man." 

"  Go  home,  Simpson,"  replied  Dr.  R ,  in  a 

changed  'voice,  as  he  handed  him  back  his  pledge. 
"  Go  hcme,  and  tell  your  wife  that  I  will  be  there 
in  ten  minutes.  Good-bye,  and  stand  by  your 
pledge." 

"  I  will  do  it,  doctor." 

On  his  way  home,  Simpson  did  not   notice  a         <! 
single  one  of  the  tempting  red  curtains,  and  bottles 
of  liquor  that  filled  so  many  windows.     He  thought 
only  of  his  wife,  and  the  heart  he  was  about  to 
make  happy. 

The  joy  that  filled  the  bosom  of  the  poor  wife, 
who  had  begun  sadly  to  fear  that  her  husband, 
whose  weakness  she  too  well  knew,  had  been 
tempted  to  take  a  glass  on  his  way  to  the  doctor's 
office,  need  not  be  described.  It  was  deep,  trem- 
bling, and  full  of  thankfulness  to  Him,  who  is  the 
Great  Restorer  of  all  things  to  order  from  disorder. 
Even  though  her  child  remained  ill  through  th"» 
night,  she  felt  a  warmth  of  joy  in  her  heart  such 
as  she  had  not  known  for  many  years. 

In  a  few  weeks,  everything  about  the  person 
and  dwelling  of  Simpson  became  remarkably 
changed.  He  was  a  good  workman,  and  could 
earn  fair  wages  at  his  trade.  Instead  of  idling 
half  of  his  time,  and  spending  more  than  half  of 
what  he  earned  in  drink,  he  worked  all  of  his  time, 
and  placed  in  the  hands  of  his  prudent  wife 


WHAT    SHALL    J    DO  ?  97 


every  dollar  he  made.  This  accounted  for  the 
change.  ': 

J!  Thus  matters  went  on  for  nearly  a  year,  when, 

the  excitement  of  experience  meetings,  and  other 
external  means  of  keeping  up  an  interest  among 
the  reformed  men,  and  occupying  their  minds, 

"f         having  subsided,  Simpson  began  to  feel  restless  an4 

j;  loneson^1,  and  was  often  strongly  tempted  to  drop 
in  to  some  of  his  old  places  of  resort,  and  pass  an 
evening  in  good  fellowship  with  former  associates. 
Such  thoughts  always  produced  a  feverish  state ; 
for  a  contest  would  arise  in  his  mind  between  the 
truth,  which  he  had  obeyed  for  a  year,  and  the 

<  specious,  but  false  reasonings  of  inclination,  and 
the  force  of  old  habits  not  yet  eradicated.  The 
consequence  was,  that  Simpson  became  unhappy. 
He  wanted  something  to  interest  him — some  ex- 
citement to  keep  him  up.  He  had  told  his  own 
experience,  and  heard  others  relate  theirs,  until  he 
was  tired.  That  was  well  enough  for  a  time  ;  but 
it  would  not  satisfy  always.  He  had  never  been 
very  fond  of  reading,  and  had  not  that  resource, 
so  elevating  and  strengthening  to  the  mind,  lifting 
it  up  into  the  higher  regions  of  intellectual  thought, 
instead  of  leaving  it  to  sink  down  amid  the  mere 
allurements  of  sense. 

As  this  state  of  dissatisfaction  increased,  Simp- 
eon  became  really  more  and  more  unhappy.  He 
wanted  something  to  sustain  him.  Something 
extra  to  his  mere  pledge.  Deeply  conscious  of 
this,  and  conscious  that  he  was  in  imminent  dan. 
ger  of  falling,  he  became  anxious,  gloomy,  and 
desponding. 

One  evening,  after  sitting  at  home  for  an  hour, 


08  WHAT   SHALL    I   DO  1 

and  reading  over  the  newspaper  of  the  day,  even 
to  the  advertisements,  he  took  his  hat,  and  said — 

"  I  believe  I  '11  walk  out  for  a  little  while.  1 
£  feel  so  dull." 

His  wife  looked  up  at  him,  and  tried  to  smile. 
But,  she  felt  troubled ;  for  she  had  noticed,  for 
some  time,  that  he  was  not  altogether  himself 
What  the  cause  was,  she  did  not  really  know 
But  a  wife  is  never  far  wrong  in  her  conjectures. 

"  You  won't  stay  out  long  !"  she  merely  said. 

"  0,  no.  I  shall  be  back  in  a  little  while.  1 
only  want  to  take  a  short  walk." 

When  Simpson  left  his  house,  he  walked  away, 
with  his  eyes  upon  the  pavement,  undetermined 
where  he  should  go.  He  had  gone  out  merely 
because  he  felt  too  restless  to  sit  at  home.  Now 
that  he  was  in  the  street,  he  was  as  dissatisfied  as 
ever.  Moving  on  with  a  slow,  measured  tread, 
he  had  gone  for  the  distance  of  two  or  three 
squares,  when  his  ear  caught  the  sound  of  music 
issuing  from  a  noted  drinking  establishment,  but 
a  short  distance  ahead.  Quickening  his  pace,  he 
was  soon  in  front  of  the  house,  when  he  paused  to 
listen.  The  music  was  from  a  hand  organ,  the 
owner  of  which  had  been  paid  a  certain  sum  by 
the  proprietor  of  the  tavern  to  play  him  a  number 
\  of  tunes,  as  a  means  of  drawing  in  customers.  The 

plan  succeeded  to  his  entire  satisfaction,  and  had 
like  to  have  succeeded  in  enticing  Simpson  within 
<!  the  charmed  circle  of  his  bar-room.  But,  just  as 

his  hand  was  on  the  latch,  his  better  sense  came 
to  his  aid,  and  he  tore  himself  away. 

Walking  on  again,  with  his  head  down,  he  felt 
more  wretched.  The  danger  he  had  just  es- 


WHAT    SHALL    I    DO  ?  99 

caped,  made  him  fearfully  aware  of  the  dangers 
<;  that  beset  him  on  every  side.  So  wrought  up  in 
mind  did  he  become,  under  a  sense  of  his  condi- 
tion, that,  shuddering  from  a  vivid  picture  of  him- 
self again  an  abandoned  drunkard,  which  his  ima- 
gination had  conjured  up,  he  stopped  suddenly,  and 
said,  aloud, 

"  God  help  me !     What  shall  I  do  ?" 
.    A   hand  was  laid  upon   his  shoulder,  and   a 
voice,  that  he  had  heard  before,  said,  in  surprised 
accents — 

"  Simpson !     Is  it  you  ?     What  is  the  trouble 
;          now  y> 

It  was  Merrill,  who  had  encountered  him  again, 
just  at  a  critical  moment.  Simpson  turned  quickly 
when  he  felt  the  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and 


looked  into  the  face  of  the  intruder  half  sternly. 


"What  ails  you  now,  my  friend?"  resumed 
Merrill.    "  A  good  temperance  man  should  never          ; 
be  in  trouble  of  mind." 

"  You  think  so.     Well,  perhaps  not." 

"  You  're  a  good  temperance  man." 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  it." 

"  What !"  In  a  quick,  surprised  voice.  "You 
have  not  broken " 

"  No,  no.  Not  yet !  But  heaven  only  knows 
£  how  soon  I  may  do  so.  I  am  beset  with  tempta- 
jj  tions  that  it  seems  impossible  for  me  to  withstand." 

"  It  was  not  so  at  first." 

"  No.  The  excitement  of  meetings,  and  con- 
certs, and  the  relation  of  experiences,  occupied 
my  mind.  But  these  have  died  away  ;  and  I  am 
thrown  back  upon  myself  again — my  weak,  weak 
self.  If  I  do  not  fall,  it  will  be  a  miracle.  I  see 


r 


100  WHAT   SHALL    I   DO  ? 

every  tavern  I  pass  in  the  streets,  and  think,  spite 
of  all  my  efforts  to  keep  such  things  out  of  my 


!j 

mind,  of  the  mixed  liquors  that  would  thrill  upon 

•J          my  taste  like  nectar,  which  are  there  to  be  ob-          J! 
tained.    What  shall  I  do?    I  feel  as  if  evil  spirits 
were  leagued  to  destroy  me,  and  that,  unless  I 
receive  more  than  human  strength,  I  will  inevita- 
bly fall." 

"  And  so  you  will,"  was  the  solemnly  spoken 
reply.  5 

$  "  Merrill !     Why  do  you  speak  so  ?"    Simpson 

said,  quickly.  "  You  will  drive  me  at  once  to 
destruction.  I  want  encouragement,  not  a  pro- 
phecy of  ruin.  You  saved  me  once — cannot  you 
do  so  again  ?"  j; 

"  Do  you  remember  what  was  said  to  you  on 
the  night  you  signed  the  pledge  by  our  Presi-         ,; 
dent  ?"  asked  Merrill. 

"No.     What  was  it?" 

"  *  Look  up  and  be  strong !  They  that  are  for 
you  are  more  than  all  who  are  against  you.' " 

"  I  had  forgotten." 

"  You  have  not  looked  up  then." 

"How,  up?" 

"Up  to  Him  who  can  alone  give  power  to 
every  good  resolution.  If  you  have  been  striving 
in  your  own  strength,  no  wonder  that  you  are  on 
the  eve  of  falling.  External  excitements  and 
reasons  of  various  kinds  may  sustain  a  reformed 
man  for  a  time,  but  until  he  place  his  cause  in 
the  hands  of  the  All-Powerful,  he  is  in  imminent 
danger." 

"  But  how  shall  I  do  this  ?  I  am  not  a  religious 
man." 


WHAT    SHALL    I   DO  ?  101 

"  Why  have  you  refrained  from  drinking  ?" 

"  Because  it  is  a  debasing  vice ;  a  vice  that,  if 
indulged,  will  beggar  my  family,  as  it  has  once, 
already,  done." 

"  You  must  abstain  from  a  higher  motive." 

"  Can  there  be  a  higher  one  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"What  is  it?" 

.  "  To  refrain  from  doing  an  evil  act,  because  it 
is  a  sin  against  God,  is  a  much  higher  motive,  and 
one  that  will  give  a  striving  spirit  power  over  all 
its  enemies.  You  acknowledge  a  God?" 

"  0  yes." 

"  And  that  he  is  ever  present  ?" 

"  Yes."  i 

"  And  a  rewarder  of  them  that  diligently  seek 
him?" 

"  So  the  Bible  tells  us."  ff 

"  It  is  all  true.  Whatever  power  we  have  to 
oppose  evil,  is  from  Him.  If  we  look  to  our- 
selves, and  claim  the  little  strength  we  possess  as 
our  own,  we  will  too  soon  find  that  we  are  weak- 
ness itself.  But,  if  we  strive  to  act  in  all  things 
from  a  religious  principle — that  is,  in  the  acknow- 
ledgment that  all  we  have  is  from  the  Lord,  and 
in  the  endeavour  to  shun  every  evil  of  life  because 
it  is  a  sin  against  him,  we  will  receive  all  the 
strength  we  need,  no  matter  how  deeply  we  may 
be  tempted.  From  this  hour,  then,  my  friend, 
resolve  to  put  your  trust  in  Him  who  careth  for 
you.  After  all,  this  is  the  reformed  man's  only 
hope.  The  pledge  is  a  mere  external,  temporary 
;:  safeguard,  that  must  be  superseded  by  a  deeply- 
grounded  religious  principle,  or  he  will  be  every 
9* 


r 

102  WHAT   SHALL    I    DO  1 

hour  in  danger  of  falling.  We  must  be  supported 
from  the  centre,  and  not  from  the  circumference. 
The  pledge  is  a  hoop,  that  is  liable  at  any  time  to 
break,  but  obedience  to  God  is  a  strong  attraction 
at  the  centre,  holding  in  perpetual  consistence  all 
things  that  are  arranged  in  just  order  around  it 
Will  you  not  then  look  up  ?» 

"  I  feel  that  it  is  my  only  hope." 

•'  Take   my  solemn  assurance  that  it  is.      Go          t 
home,  and  carry  with  you  this  truth,  that  if  you 
will  strive  to  act  from  the  higher  motive  I  have 
given  you,  all  will  be  right." 

It  was,  perhaps,  half  an  hour  from  the  time 

Simpson  left  his  house,  that  he  re-entered  it.     His 

wife  looked  up  with  some  concern  in  her  face  as 

he  came  in.     But  a  first  glance  dispelled  the  fears 

'J          that  had  stolen  over  her  spirit.     Before  going    o 

bed  that  night,  Simpson  got  the  family  Bible,  and          $ 
read  a  chapter  aloud.     In  doing  so,  he  felt  a  sweet 
tranquillity  pervade  his  mind,  such  as  he  had  not 
;•          experienced  for  a  long  time.     On  the  next  day  he          <; 
tried  to  elevate  his  thoughts  to  the  Power  above 
in  which  he  wished  to  put  his  trust.     He  found  it 


much  easier  to  do  so  than  he  had  expected.  It 
was  not  long  before,  in  addition  to  the  reading  of 
a  chapter  in  the  evening,  before  retiring,  a  brief 
prayer  was  said.  From  that  time,  a  deep  reli- 
gious sentiment  took  possession  of  the  mind  of 
Simpson.  Light  broke  in  upon  him.  He  saw 
clearer  the  path  before  him,  the  dangers  that  sur- 
rounded him,  and  the  way  of  escape.  Some  years 
have  passed,  and  he  is  still  a  sober  man.  He  does 
not  think  of  his  pledge,  nor  of  the  degradation 
of  drunkenness  as  a  reason  for  abstinence ;  but 


WHAT    SHALL    I    DO  ?  IW8 

deems  it  a  sin  against  God  to  touch,  taste,  or  handle 
that  which  would  unfit  him  for  those  duties  in  life, 
which,  as  a  man,  he  is  bound  to  perform. 

Let  every  reformed  man  look  up  to  the  same 
All-sustaining  Source,  and  he  is  safe  from  danger. 


JACK    KETCH. 


.NOT  long  since,  under  the  sentence  of  hia 
country's  violated  laws,  a  wretch,  whose  hand  had 
been  lifted  against  his  fellow  man,  and  imbrued 
in  his  blood,  suffered  death  upon  the  gallows.  £ 
Although  the  execution  occurred  in  my  native 
town,  I  did  not  go  with  the  crowd  to  witness  the 
solemn  sacrifice  made  upon  the  altar  of  justice. 
My  taste  did  not  lie  in  that  way. 

I  was  not  a  little  surprised,  a  day  or  two  after- 
wards, on  calling  upon  some  ladies,  at  being  in-         I; 
terrogated  on  the  subject  of  the  execution,  with         «; 
the  manifestation  of  no  little  interest.     More  par- 
ticularly, as  it  soon  appeared  that  the  ladies  had 
witnessed  the   appalling   scene.     It   had  excited         \ 
their  nerves  to  such  a  degree,  that  nothing  which          \ 
did  not  appertain  in  some  way  to  the  "  hanging," 
possessed  for  them  a  particle  of  interest.     In  vain 
did  I  attempt  to  get  away  from  the  revolting  sub-          / 
ject.     I  struggled  like  a  bird  tied  to  a  stake,  mo- 
ving in  a  circle,  and  ever  returning  and  returning 
to  the  same  point.  ; 

"  How  I  wanted  to  knock  that  Jack  Ketch  off 
of  the  scaffold,  when  he  went  up  and  fixed  the 
rope  around  the  poor  fellow's  neck,  with  such 

104 

v-yj-j*.  -wwvJ 


I 

JACK   KETCH.  105 


professional    coolness!"   remarked   one   of  these 
ladies,  during  the  conversation.  <; 

"Yes,  so  did  I,"  was  the  response.  "After 
the  drop  fell,  the  wretch  had  to  be  protected  from 
the  indignation  of  the  crowd  by  the  police.  No 
wonder  there  should  be  so  instinctive  a  hatred  of 
the  hangman.  Debased,  indeed,  must  that  man 
be,  who,  for  hire,  will  perform  such  a  service !" 

"  Was  there  anything  wrong  in  his  acting  in          § 
\         simple  obedience  to  the  law  ?     Was  he  any  more 
censurable  than  the  rope,  or  the  beam  that  sus- 
tained the  rope  ?"  I  asked.     "  He  did  not  condemn,          j> 
the  man  to  die.     He  was  not  the  law — but  the 
mere   executor  of  the  law,  and   therefore   irre- 
sponsible." 

"  All  that  may  be,"  was  retorted.  "  But  it  does 
not  take  away  the  cold,  blood-thirsty  feeling  that 
must  possess  the  man  who  can,  for  the  mere  sake 
of  money,  perform  such  a  service.  None  but  he 
who  would  commit  murder  himself,  could  be  in- 
|;  duced  to  do  such  an  act." 

"  In  your  opinion,"  I  could  not  help  saying. 

"  Yes,  in  my  opinion  ;  and  that,  I  presume,  is 
worth  something,"  was  a  little  warmly  replied. 

"  He  '11  never  come  to  any  good,  of  course,"  said 
another  of  the   ladies.     "  How   could   he  ?      A 
Jack  Ketch !    Horrible !"  And  the  lady  shuddered. 
j>  In   about  a  week  I  called  again,  hoping  that 

some  new  and  less  revolting  subject  had,  by  this 
time,  pushed  aside  the  absorbing  interest  of  the  ex- 
'?          ecution.     But  no.     The  first  words,  after  the  com- 
pliments of  the  day,  were  these : 

"  Didn't  I  say  that  fellow  would  come  to  an 
>         evil  end  ?J 


\ 


> 

106  JACK   KETCH.  ff 

"What  fellow?"  I  asked  of  the  speaker,  not 
comprehending  her. 

"  Why,  the  fellow  who  acted  as  Jack  Ketch !" 

I  was  thrown  all  aback.    "  Oh,  yes !"  I  returned,          2 
showing  as  little  distaste,  as  I  well  could  to  the 
subject,  out  of  mere  politeness.     "  Well,  what  of 
him?" 

"He  is  dead!" 

"  Dead !     How  have  you  learned  that  ?" 

"  We  have  heard  it  from  a  true  source.  He 
went  home  that  night,  and  died  in  horrible  agonies. 
A  just  punishment  of  heaven !"  \ 

"  Why  do  you  call  it  a  just  punishment  of 
heaven  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Because  the  deed  was  one  that  heaven  cannot         > 
look  upon  with   approval.     The  man  who   puts 
the  rope  about  the  neck  of  a  poor  criminal,  and 
launches  him  off  into  eternity,  must  have  a  heart 
as  hard  and  as  black  as  the  heart  of  a  demon." 

"  If  the  heart  of  the  man  you  now  allude  to 
had  been  so  hard  and  black,  it  is  not  presumable 
that  he  would  have  died  from  any  horrible  agonies 


resulting  from  the  deed  he  had  been  called  upon 
to  do.  Demons,  instead  of  repenting  an  act  of 
cruelty,  delight  in  its  contemplation.  So  sudden 
a  death,  accompanied  by  agonies  of  mind,  indicates 
something  more  than  you  seem  to  imagine.  Poor 
wretch !  While  execrated  by  the  multitude  for 
his  agency  in  a  deed  as  revolting,  perhaps,  to  his 
soul  as  to  theirs,  his  own  mind  has  doubtless  been 
maddened,  as  calm  reflection  came,  and  showed 
him  the  depths  of  degradation  into  which  he  had 
fallen.  As  I  am  inclined  to  look  at  the  matter, 
the  hangman  is  much  more  to  be  pitied  than  exe- 


JACK  KETCH.  107 

crated.     He  performs  one  of  the  most  painful  and 

1  revolting  duties  that  society  requires  of  any  of  its 
members." 

This  sort  of  reasoning  did  not,  however,  appear 
to   have  much  weight  with   my  gentle   friends. 

5  Their  sympathies  were  all  committed  in  favour  of 
the  criminal  who  had  suffered  ;  and,  as  poor  Jack 
Ketch  had  been  the  instrument  of  inflicting  the 

;  horrid  death,  for  him,  of  course,  they  had  ndne 
left.  After  battling  with  them  for  a  time,  I  drew 
off  from  the  contest,  apparently,  but  not  really, 

;!          silenced. 

A  short  time  subsequent  to  the  event  which  had 
awakened  into  so  much  activity  the  sympathies  of 

I  my  lady  acquaintances,  I  happened  to  learn  the  > 
history  of  the  individual  whom  they  had  execrated 
so  bitterly.  It  interested  me  deeply.  And,  as  if 
to  afford  one  of  those  striking  moral  lessons  so  use- 
ful to  society,  I  have  determined  to  put  it  upon 
record. 

\  The  clergyman  who  attended  the  criminal  in 

<         prison  and  upon  the  scaffold,  was  my  personal  and 

intimate  friend.     It  was  several  days   after  the          ;> 
execution  before  I  met  with  him.     When  I  did,  I 
found  that  the  whole  scene,  trying  as   all   such 
scenes  must  necessarily  be  to  the  minister  of  the 


gospel  whose  duty  calls  him  to  a  position  from 
which  all  our  natural  feelings  shrink,  had  deeply 
affected  his  mind.  After  detailing,  with,  a  minute- 
ness that  was  painful,  the  conduct  of  the  criminal 
through  the  whole  terrible  scene,  he  paused,  and 
remained  silent  for  some  time,  breathing  heavily 
all  the  while.  At  length  he  said, — 

"  But  I  witnessed  another  scene  on  that  same 


108  JACK  KETCH. 

rj 

day  that  touched  my  feelings  with  acuter  anguish,         J> 
You  remember  Fennel,  who,  a  few  years  ago,  was 
a  merchant  of  wealth  and  standing  in  our  city  ?" 
I  replied  that  I  knew  nothing  of  the  person  to 
whom  he  alluded,  except  that  I  remembered  to 
have  seen  his  sign  up  many  years  before. 

The  history  of  that  man  and  his  family,  resumed 
the  clergyman,  is  an  affecting  one.  They  were 
members  of  my  church,  and  this  relation  brought 
me  into  immediate  contact  with  them.  Mr.  Fen- 

j;  nel  was  a  man  of  great  probity.     I  have  rarely 

met  any  one  immersed  in  business,  and  tempted  as 
all  business  men  necessarily  are,  whose  sense  of         £ 
honour  and  honesty  was  so  acute  as  his.     He  never 
was  known  to  take  any  advantage  in  bargaining — 
a  mercantile  virtue  of  too  rare  occurrence.     The 

<(          manly,  generous  tone  of  his  character,  was  pro-         ^ 
verbial.     His  word  was  as  good  security  as   hia 

j;          bond. 

Not  less  admired  in  her  own  sphere  of  action, 
was  his  accomplished  wife.     Amiable,  intelligent, 
yet  strong-minded,  her  character  presented   that 
combination  of  qualities  that  causes  us  to  love  as         ^ 
well  as  revere  their  possessor.      It  was,  to  me,         i> 

s  always  a  pleasure  of  no  ordinary  kind  to  spend  an 

hour  in  her  company.     The  sphere  of  her  mind's 
quality  surrounded  her  as  the  sphere  of  the  quality          ;) 
of  a  rose,  in  its  odour,  surrounds  that  flower,  and  I 
never  approached  her  that  I  was  not  penetrated 
and  affected  by  this  sphere.     It  was  felt  in  a  pe-         5 

'<          culiar  elevation   of  thought  and  feeling.     Well 
might  it  be  said  of  her, — 

-  None  knew  her  but  to  love  her—  ff 

Or  named  her  but  to  praise."  <i 


1 

JACK   KETCH.  109 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fennel  had  two  children,  daugh- 
ters. At  the  time  to  which  I  am  now  referring, 
the  oldest  was  about  eight  years  of  age,  and  the 
youngest  six.  A  younger  child,  a  son,  had  died 
about  a  year  before.  This  loss  had  been  felt 
acutely,  and  had  thrown  over  Mrs.  Fennel's  char-  .  ;> 
acter  a  shade  of  thoughtfulness  that,  sometimes, 

£  deepened  into  sadness.  Instead  of  finding  this 
pensive  tone  of  mind  wearing  off  as  time  passed  on, 
I  was  pained  to  see  that  it  increased.  It  was  not 
a  rare  occurrence  for  me,  on  visiting  her,  to  find 
the  traces  of  tears  upon  her  cheek.  For  a  time  I 
was  under  the  impression  that  all  this  was  occa- 
sioned by  the  loss  of  her  child.  But  its  long  con- 
tinuance, and  increase,  rather  than  diminution, 
led  me  to  fear  that  there  was  for  it  a  deeper  cause. 

I;          What  the  cause  was,  I  could  not  imagine. 

One  afternoon,  I  called  in,  and  found  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Fennel  alone  in  the  parlour.  They  received 
me  with  unusual  reserve,  and  in  an  embarrassed 
manner.  The  eyes  of  the  latter  were  swimming 


in  tears.     I  sat  for  half  an  hour,  during  which  all 


of  us  exerted  ourselves  to  converse,  but  there  was 
no  freedom  of  intercourse.  I  went  away  at  the 
end  of  that  period,  perplexed,  and  much  troubled. 
I  saw  that  there  was  a  cause  deeper,  and  more 
active,  than  the  loss  of  their  child  a  year  before, 
operating  upon  their  minds.  What  could  this  be  ? 
On  the  next  Sabbath,  they  were  at  church  as 
usual,  with  their  children.  Mr.  Fennel  looked 
graver  than  common  —  at  least  I  thought  so. 
There  was  no  mistaking,  however,  the  meaning 
of  his  wife's  countenance.  That  was  sad,  very 
sad.  What  could  be  the  reason  ?  1  felt  so  acvrt  ?ly 

j 


;  110  JACK  KETCH. 

this  change,  that  I  was  oppressed  during  the  ser- 
vice. Guard  myself  as  I  would,  ever  and  anon  1 
found  myself  looking  too  steadily  upon  the  pensive 
face  of  Mrs.  Fennel,  as  she  sat  leaning  forward, 
her  head  resting  upon  her  hand,  and  her  earnest 
eyes  fixed  upon  her  minister,  as  if  seeking  consola-  \ 


tion  and  hope  from  heaven  through  him. 


All  this  was  a  mystery  to  me — a  painful  mys-         <; 
tery.     So  sudden  a  change  in  that  quarter,  I  could         ^ 
not  account  for  in  any  way.     This  was  about  mid- 
summer.    During  the  next  week  they  left  town 
for  the  springs,  and  remained  away  from  the  city 
for  a  month.     I   looked  for  their  return  with  a 
good  deal  of  anxiety.     One  Sunday  morning,  they,          <! 
unexpectedly  to  me,  came  into  church,  and  took 
their  accustomed  place.     I  had  not  been  apprised         j; 
of  their  having  left  the  springs.     I  saw  them  enter, 
and  come  up  the  aisle,  but  as  Mrs.  Fennel  was 
behind  her  husband,  I  could  not  get  a  view  of  her         •; 
face  until  she  was  seated  in  the  pew.     As  she  did 

!>  this,  I  almost  started  at  the  change  that  a  single         ^ 

month  had  wrought  in   her  usually  placid  face.         j; 
For  a  little  while,  I  could  hardly  believe  that  it 
was  indeed  my  much  esteemed  and  valued  parish- 

I;  ioner.     There   was   an   anxious,  care-worn  look         •; 

about  her,  with  a  dreaminess  that  told  of  some  in- 


ternal source  of  trouble  that  preyed  deeply  upon 
her  mind.  As  for  her  husband,  he,  too,  was 
changed.  But  I  could  not  define  to  myself  the 
character  of  that  change,  nor  draw  any  inferences 
from.  it.  Its  predominant  trait  was'coldness,  that 
bordered  on  to  something  stern.  I  noticed  that 
the  husband  and  wife  did  not  sit  in  the  pew  just  in 
the  order  that  had  formerly  been  regularly  ob- 


JACK   KETCH.  HI 

served.  Their  two  daughters  had  always  entered 
first,  so  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fennel  could  sit  side  by 
side  and  use  the  same  book.  This  time  the  wife 
sat  at  one  extremity  of  the  pew,  and  her  husband 
at  the  other — the  daughters  were  of  course  in  the 
middle. 

I  was  more  than  ever  perplexed  and  troubled. 
;>  On  the  next  morning  I  called  to  see  Mrs.  Fennel. 
She  was  glad  to  meet  me,  and  made,  as  I  could  see, 
a  strong  effort  to  appear  cheerful.  But  this  was 
impossible.  That  which  weighed  upon  her  spirits, 
be  it  what  it  might,  pressed  too  heavily.  I  felt 
anxious  to  know  what  had  wrought  so  sudden  a 
!>  change  in  her,  that  I  might  offer  those  consolations 
of  religion  peculiarly  suited  to  her  case.  But  she 
did  not  seem  inclined  to  confide  anything  to  me, 
although  I  endeavoured  to  open  the  way  for  her.  ^ 
This  only  increased  the  solicitude  I  felt. 

A  week  after  I  met  her  in  company,  with  her 
husband.  Over  both  had  passed  a  pleasing  change. 
She  was  cheerful,  even  animated,  and  threw 
around  her  that  inexpressible  charm  that  delighted  5 
every  one.  Mr.  Fennel  was  not  quite  so  much  his 
former  self  as  was  his  wife.  Still,  no  one  would 
have  remarked  the  shade  of  difference  but  one 
whose  attention,  like  mine,  had  been  particularly 
called  to  it.  On  the  next  Sabbath,  their  old  rela- 
tive positions  were  resumed.  Mrs.  Fennel  looked 
like  herself  again.  I  could  see  that  ,as  she  sat 
while  I  read,  or  stood  while  the  congregation 
sung,  her  body  was  slightly  inclined  towards  her 
husband. 

Evidently,  such  was  my  conclusion,  there  had 
existed   some   cause   of  coldness  between  them, 


112  JACK   KETCH. 

that  had  been  put  away.     It  was  painful,  however, 
to  think,  that  between  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Fennel,         s 
and  such  a  woman  as  his  wife,  any  cause  of  cold- 
ness could  exist.  < 

Nothing  occurred  to  draw  my  thoughts  more         5 
than   usually  towards  them  for  several   months, 
when,  to  my  great  grief,  I  saw  Mrs.  Fennel  enter 
the   church  one   Sabbath   morning,  accompanied         $ 
only  by  her  two  children.     Her  countenance  was         S 
anxious  and  even  haggard.     She  seated  herself  far 
£  back  in  the  pew,  and  sat  throughout  the  whole 

service,  the  most  part  of  the  time  with  her  eye* 
upon  the  floor,  and  her  hand  shading  her  face. 
I  called  upon  her  on  the  day  following.  No 
change  had  taken  place  in  her  appearance.  Her 
face  was  pale  and  anxious. 

"  My  dear  madam,"  I  said  as  I  took  her  hand, 
"  I  am  grieved  to  find  that,  from  some  cause  or 
other,  a  shadow  has  fallen  upon  your  heart.  Is 
it  in  my  power  to  offer  you  words  of  comfort  1" 

Her  lip  quivered  a  moment.     But  self-control         ^ 
was  soon  acquired. 


"  There  are  causes  of  pain,"  she  replied  calmly, 
"that  you  can  reach.  Wounds  for  which  you 
have  a  healing  balm.  But  the  trouble  that  op- 
presses me  I  cannot  utter — no  mere  human  agency 
can  minister  to  it.  I  can  only  look  up  in  the 
silence  of  my  own  heart,  and  pray  for  the  suf-  J 
ferer's  portion — patience  and  resignation." 

There  was  a  solemn  earnestness  about  Mrs. 
Fennel  that  deeply  depressed  me.  I  knew  not 
What  to  reply.  For  a  time  I  remained  silent. 
Then  I  said— 

"  You  do  well  to  look  up  tor  strength,  to  Him 

i 


JACK   KETCH.  113  jj 

from  whom  alome,  all  strength  can  come.  He  will 
hide  you  in  the  cleft  of  the  rock,  and  keep  you 
under  the  shadow  of  his  wings.  Pour  out  youi 
soul  to  him,  and  he  will  regard  your  prayer,  and 
send  you  the  healing  balm  of  consolation." 

,  She  did  not  reply,  and  I  could  only — to  break 

the  embarrassing  silence  that  followed,  more  thar 
with  the  hope  of  saying  anything  that  would  min 
ister  to  her  mysterious  grief  of  mind — repeat  1o 
her  various  encouraging  passages  from  the  Bible, 
to  which  she  listened  with  meek  attention. 

This  interview  perplexed  me  greatly.     It  was 

1  evident  to  my  mind  that  there  was  a  coldness  be- 
tween herself  and  her  husband.  But  the  cause  of 
that  coldness  I  could  not  imagine.  On  the  next 
Sabbath,  Mr.  Fennel  came  to  church.  But  I 
noticed  that  his  wife  did  not  sit  by  his  side.  I 
saw  her  face  but  a  few  times  during  the  services. 
It  was  anxious  and  troubled. 

Months  passed,  and  the  mystery  was  yet  un- 
ravelled. I  conversed  with  several  of  my  parish- 
ioners on  the  subject.  All  had  noticed  the  change 
— but  of  its  cause,  they  were  ignorant.  Many 
conjectures  were  ventured.  Some  more  suspi-  j> 
cious,  or  less  guarded  than  the  rest,  suggested 
reasons  that  my  mind  could  not  entertain  for  a 
moment.  Of  the  real  cause,  I  had  not  the  most 
remote  suspicion  until  about  a  year  after  I  had  jj 
first  noticed  the  depression  of  Mrs.  Fennel's  spirits, 
and  ascertained  that  it  did  not  arise  from  the  be- 
reavement she  had  months  before  been  called  upon 
to  suffer.  During  that  time,  there  had  been  periods; 
when  the  cloud  had  lifted  itself  up,  and  the  sun 
had  looked  down  with  some  of  his  brightest  smiles. 
10* 

* 


114  JACK  KETCH  'i 

But  these  periods  were  not  of  long  duration.     A 
deeper  obscuration  of  light  always  succeeded. 

A  large  party  had  been  given  by  a  wealthy  pa- 
rishioner, and  I  attended  it.     Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fennel          I; 
were  there.     The  latter  appeared  quite  cheerful. 
I  sat  by  her  side,  and  conversed  with  her  for  some 
tim<>,  charmed,  as  I  had  often  been  before  by  the 
pure  beauty  of  her  sentiments,  that  flowed  forth          f, 
in  language  that  of  itself  delighted  the  ear.     Mr.          ;• 
Fennel  was  rather  graver  and  thoughtful.     Some- 
thing evidently  weighed  upon  his  mind.     During 
the  progress  of  the  evening,  however,  he  became 
cheerful,  and  seemed  to  enter  into  the  social  plea-         j; 
sures  that  surrounded  him  with  a  lively  satisfaction. 
It  did  not  escape  my  notice,  that  the  eye  of  his  wife 
was  frequently  turned  towards  him,  and  with  a 

<1  look  of  anxiety.  The  meaning  of  that  look  I  could 
not  understand.  As  the  evening  progressed,  and 
wine  had  been  once  or  twice  handed  round,  I  no- 
ticed that  Mr.  Fennel's  manner  changed  more  and 
more,  until,  from  the  grave  reserve  that  had,  at 
first,  distinguished  him,  he  became  more  talkative  ;; 
than  I  had  ever  before  seen  him. 

A  new  suspicion   glanced  through   my  mind, 
half-corroborated  by  an  expression  of  strange  mean- 
ing on  the  face  of  his  wife,  as  I  noticed  her  with       ,  ;> 
her  eye  fixed  upon  him.     There  was  a  sideboard 

!;          covered  with  liquors  and  refreshments  in  an  ad- 
joining room.     To  this,  I  now  remembered  that  I 

'<>          had   seen  him  go  two   or  three  times   already. 

While  pondering  the  matter  over  in  my  mind,  I          ;> 
observed  him  to  pass  out  with  two  or  three  of  his 
mercantile  friends.     My  curiosity  led  me  to  follow. 
He  was  at  the  sideboard  again 


j  I 

JACK  KETCH.  115  > 

I  went  back  into  the  parlour.  Mrs.  Fennel 
»ooked  troubled.  I  sat  down  by  her  side  and  en- 
tered into  conversation  with  her.  But  there  was 
little  life  in  it.  Her  thoughts  were  wandering. 
Five  minutes  elapsed  and  her  husband  re-appeared. 
He  was  talking  in  rather  a  loud  voice,  to  one  of 
his  friends,  and  seemed  quite  animated.  In  less  <j 

than  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  I  missed  him  from  the 
room  again.     Shortly  after,  I  saw  him  on  the  floor 
dancing  with  all  the  activity  of  a  young  man  of 
;>         twenty-five. 

So  great  a  change  as  had  taken  place  in  him 
during  the  evening,  I  at  once  saw  could  only  be 
^         accounted   for  on  the   presumption  that  he   had          \ 
been  drinking  too  freely.     The  troubled  expression          <; 
of  Mrs.  Fennel's  countenance,  as  her  eyes  sought, 
every  now  and  then,  the  form  of  her  husband, 
confirmed  my  already  too  well  strengthened  con- 
clusions. 

"  I  don't  like  to  see  that,"  remarked  an  elderly 
lady,  who  happened*  to  be  seated  near  me,  as  her 
own  eye  rested  upon  Mr.  Fennel,  moving  lightly 
through  the  cotillion. 

"  Don't  like  what  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Don't  like  to  see  Mr.  Fennel  quite  as  gay  aa          ',; 
he  is  to-night,"  was  her  reply. 

"  This  is  a  festive,  occasion,"  I  replied,  wishing 
!J         to  draw  her  out — "  You  would  not  have  him  con- 
tinue as  grave  as  he  was  for  the  first  hour  after  he 
came  in." 

The  old  lady  looked  at  me  a  moment  in- 
quiringly, and  then  said. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  tell  you, 
;>         that  he  is  not  himself  just  at  this  moment." 


r 


116  JACK   KETCH. 


"  Do  you  think  he  has  been  taking  wine  too 
freely?"  I  asked. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  do,"  was  the  reply. 
<;          "  Have  you  not  noticed  a  great  change  in  Mrs.          | 
I          Fennel  in  the  past  year  ?" 

I  replied  that  I  had. 

<!  "  And  have  you  not  known  the  reason  ?"  she 

added. 

"  No,"  I  returned.  "  The  great  change  in  her 
has  been  to  me  a  painful  mystery.  Not  once  until 
this  evening,  have  I  had  a  suspicion  of  what  1 
now  presume  to  be  the  real  cause." 

"  I  have  known  it  for  many  months  past,"  she 
said.     "  And  it  has  grieved  me  deeply.     Its  effects 
£  .       upon  his  wife  are  painful  in  the  extreme.     I  think 
;J          I  have  never  known  any  one  who  has  changed  as         j' 
much  as  she  has  changed  in  so  short  a  time." 

"  But,  surely,"  I  said,  "  Mr.   Fennel   cannot 
have  become  so  much  enslaved,  already,  as  to  have 
lost  the  power  of  self-control.     He  is  a  man  of 
strong  mind.     A  distinct  consciousness  of  danger 
must  be  all  that  is  necessary  to  prompt  him  to 
\          place  himself  beyond  the  reach  of  that  danger  at          i 
j;          once  and  for  ever." 

"  I  have  thought  so.     And  have  more  than  once 
resolved  to  speak  to  you  on  the  subject,  and  de- 
£          ciare  my  conviction  that  you  are  the  one  who  can 
best   and   most  effectually  perform  the  duty  of 
warning  him." 
\  "  Me  ?"  I  said,  in  surprise. 

"  Yes,  you,"  was  the  firm  answer.  "  As  his 
minister,  you  can  venture  upon  ground  with  him, 
that  no  other  man  dare  tread.  He  may  listen  to 
you  in  a  matter  that  would  cause  him  to  spurn  in- 


JACK   KETCH.  JJ7 

terference  in  any  other  quarter  with  indignation. 
It  is  then,  it  seems  to  me,  clearly  your  duty  to  go 
to  him  alone  and  remonstrate  in  the  most  solemn 
manner  against  his  present  course.  You  mav  save 
him:" 

This  unequivocal  declaration  as  to  my  duty, 
choked  me  up.  My  natural  feelings  shrunk 
awav  from  the  performance  of  such  a  task  with  in- 
stinctive reluctance.  ^ 

"  I  will  see  you  to-morrow,  and  have  a  fuller  ^ 

and  freer  conversation  with  you  about  this  matter," 
I  said. 

On  the  next  day  I  called  upon  this  lady,  and  •( 

conferred  with  her  more  seriously.  I  learned 
that  Mr.  Fennel  had  been,  within  the  last  six 
months,  several  times  so  much  intoxicated  as  to  be  <; 

obliged  to  go  to  bed.     And  that  his  daily  indul- 
gence in  drinking,  was  uniformly  carried  to  excess.  ^ 
This  she  had  learned  from  undoubted  sources.                   £ 

The  whole  truth,  when  I  became  fully  conscious 
of  it,  stunned  me.  The  more  I  reflected  on  the  ! 

sad  condition  into  which  his  appetite,  too  freely 
indulged,  had  brought  him,  the  more  distinctly 
conscious  was  I,  that  I  had  a  duty  to  perform  to- 
wards him  and  his  family,  painful  as  it  might  be 
to  my  feelings,  from  which  I  dare  not  shrink.  To  ? 

the  immediate  performance  of  this   duty,  I  wag  % 

strongly  urged  by  the  individual  who  had  first  ap- 
prised me  of  the  extent  of  Mr.  Fennel-'s  derelic-  ;> 
tion.     Reluctantly  I  prepared  to  obey  the  prompt- 
ing voice  which  would  not  let  me  be  at  peace. 

It  took  me  some  time  to  decide  when  and  how, 
and  where  I  should  begin.  The  settlement  of 
hese  preliminaries  were  longer  delayed  than  they 


JACK   KETCH. 

would  have  been,  if  I  had  felt  the  slightest  affec- 
tion for  the  duty  I  was  called  to  perform.  But  I 
shrunk  away,  and  made  excuses  for  putting  off 
the  painful  task.  At  length  conscience  smote  me 
so  hard  that  I  was  compelled  to  go  forward  in  the 
£  only  path  that  lay  before  me. 

It  was  nearly  two  weeks  from  the  time  when  I 
became  apprised  of  Mr.  Fennel's  derelictions,  be- 
fore a  sense  of  my  obligations  as  a  minister  to  him 
and  his  family,  drove  me  into  the  way  of  duty. 
Even  then,  I  should  not  have  gone  forward,  if  I  had 
not  chanced  to  meet  him  in  the  street  so  much  under 
the  influence  of  liquor  as  not  to  know  me.  On 


the  day  succeeding  this,  I  called,  under  a  feeling 


of  oppressive  reluctance,  at  his  store,  and  asked 
the  favour  of  a  private  interview  at  his  house  or 
mine,  whenever  it  would  be  most  convenient  for 
him. 

"  We  will  be  perfectly  alone  here,"  he  said, 
closing  the  door  of  his  counting-room  that  com- 
municated with  the  store.  "  If  you  have  anything 
particular  to  say  to  me,  I  am  entirely  at  your 
service." 

There  was  now,  no  way  of  escape.  The  duty 
which  I  had  continued  to  look  at  as  in  the  future, 
suddenly  became  a  present  duty.  It  was  some 
moments  before  I  could  collect  my  thoughts, 
during  which  time  the  merchant  looked  at  me 
£  steadily  and  inquiringly.  At  length,  with  an  em- 
barrassed manner,  I  began  — 

"  Mr.  Fennel,  I  have  come  to  you,  urged  by  the 
high  obligations  of  my  sacred  calling,  to  perform 
a  very  painful  duty,'  —  nothing  less  than  to  ad- 
monish you  as  one  of  my  parishioners." 


1^r*r^*r^*r 


JACK   KETCH.  Hi)  S 

"  To  admonish  me !"  the  merchant  repli<*., 
looking  into  my  face  with  surprise.  5 

"  Yes,  sir — that,  as  I  have  said,  has  become  n,y 
painful  duty." 

"  Speak  out  then,  fully  and  freely."  As  Mr. 
Fennel  said  this,  he  compressed  his  lips,  and  fix  d  > 

his  eyes  upon  me  with  a  sort  of  stern  defiance.  J 
felt  choked  up.  But  there  was  no  retreat. 

"  I  am  afraid,  sir,"  I  said,  coming  at  once  to  the  ^ 

point,  "that  you  have,  unwittingly,  fallen  into  the 
habit  of  indulging  too  freely  in  wine." 

I  paused,  for  the  face  of  the  merchant  became 
instantly  pale.  Before  I  had  time  to  proceed,  he 
replied  in  a  quick,  half-angry  voice —  <! 

"  Mr. -,  I  permit  no  one,  not  even  my  min-          [j 

ister,  the  liberty  you  are  now  presuming  upon.  I 
am  responsible  to  no  man  for  my  conduct ;  and 
cannot,  therefore,  suffer  any  man  to  take  me  to 
task.  If  that  is  the  subject  of  your  interview  with 
me,  I  beg  that  it  be  instantly  concluded." 

I  attempted  to  remonstrate,  and  thus  soften  him 
down,  but  he  was  firm :  and  threw  me  off  with  <; 
even  more  decided  language.  When  I  left  him, 
it  was  with  painful  and  gloomy  feelings.  Most 
reluctantly  had  I  gone  forward  at  the  imperious 
call  of  duty,  to  meet  a  stern  repulse. 

On  the  next  Sabbath  he  did  not  come  to  church. 
Mrs.  Fennel  had  a  care-worn  look.  She  sat, 
through  most  of  the  service,  with  her  eyes  upon 
the  floor.  My  heart  ached  for  her.  But  I  could 
do  nothing  to  ward  off  the  danger  that  threatened 
utterly  to  destroy  her  peace.  From  that  time 
forth,  her  husband  came  but  rarely  into  the  house 


I  \ 

120  JACK   KETCH. 

of  God.     His  too  excessive  indulgence  in  drinking 
soon  became  known  to  all. 

>  Thus  matters  went  on  for  two  or  three  years, 

during  which  time  the  deep  distress  of  Mrs.  Fen- 
\          nel  urged  me  to  repeated  remonstrances ;  but  all          ;> 
V          to  no  purpose.     I  was,  at  each  attempt,  repulsed 

with  anger.  <! 

At  last  I  was  startled  by  the  intelligence  that 
he  had  failed  in  business.  Long  before  this,  the 
unhappy  wife  had  unburdened  to  me  her  whole 
heart.  I  could,  therefore,  call  upon  her  at  once,  ,s 
and  as  a  friend  into  whose  ear  she  could  pour  out 
all  her  feelings.  I  found  her  in  deep  distress,  as 
I  had  expected.  The  extent  of  the  disaster  that  Jj 
had  befallen  her  husband's  business  she  did  not 
know.  For  months  Mr.  Fennel  had  maintained 
towards  her  a  strict  reserve.  As  well  as  I  could, 
I  strove  to  encourage  her.  ^ 

"  This  disaster,  I  trust,  will  awaken  him  to  a 
distinct  consciousness   of  his  true  condition.     It 
'will  cause  him  to  feel  the  absolute  necessity  of          s 
preserving  a  well-balanced  mind  in  order  to  re- 
;  cover  himself  and  regain  the  business  position  he 

has  lost." 

"  I  hope  it  may  be  so,"  she  replied,  despono- 
ingly.     "  But  I  fear  a  different  result.     Trouble         % 
of  mind  too  often  drives  men  who  are  at  all  given 


to  drinking,  into  greater  indulgence.     The  appre- 
hension of  this,  distresses  me  deeply.     If  it  would 


<;  cause  him  to  reform  the  course  of  life  he  has  pur- 

sued for  some  time  past,  I  could  say,  cheerfully, 
come  reverses,  and  welcome  them  as  my  friends." 
"  Let  us  hope  for  the  best,  my  dear  madam,"  I 

f,  said.     "All  events  are  in  the  hands  of  a  wise  and 


If  he  had  then  only  abandoned  at  onc.e  and  for 


JACK    KETCH.  121 

good  Providence,  who,  out  of  seeming  evil,  is  ever 
educing  good.  He  never  visits  us  with  the  loss 
of.  earthly  blessings,  such  as  wealth,  or  friends, 
that  the  end  is  not  to  bestow  upon  us  some  higher 
and  purer  gifts.  Look  up  for  them.  One  of  them, 
perchance,  may  be  the  full  restoration  of  youi 
husband  to  his  right  mind." 

"  God  grant  it !"  she  ejaculated,  fervently,  lift- 
ing her  eyes  upward,  as  she  spoke.  ? 

"  Amen  !"  was  my  heart-felt  response.        , 

Our  earnest  hope  proved  fallacious.     The  settle- 
ment of  his  affairs  left  him  without  a  dollar  in  the 
world.     His  beautiful  residence,  with  all  its  rich          $ 
and  tasteful  furniture,  was  sold  under  the  hammer, 
and  himself  and  family  thrown  upon  the  world. 
Instead  of  rousing  up,  and  going  thrpugh  the  trial          4 
$          like   a  man,  he  was   more  than  half-intoxicated          ;> 
during  the  whole  period  that  elapsed  from  the  time 
his  paper  was  dishonoured,  until  his  creditois  re- 
;!          leased  him  from  all  obligations,  and  turned  him          £ 
penniless  out  of  house  and  home. 

With  a  scanty  portion  of  furniture,  all  that  re- 
mained of  past  luxurious  elegance,  Mrs.  Fennel  ? 
s  retired  with  her  two  daughters  into  a  small  house 
which  her  husband  had  rented,  in  an  obscure 
neighbourhood.  He  procured  employment  as  a 
collector  of  moneys  for  a  large  estate,  from  which 
he  had  an  income  of  nearly  a  thousand  dollars. 


ever  the  use  of  wine  and  strong  liquors,  he  would 
soon  have  risen  again ;  for  he  had  great  force  of 
character,  activity,  and  a  thorough  knowledge  of 
business.  "  If  Fennel  would  onlyquit  drinking," 
said  a  merchant  to  me  who  was  engaged  largely 
11 


122  JACK  KETCH. 

in  trade,  "I  would  give  him  an  interest  in  my 
business  to-morrow.  He  could  increase  the  profits 
ten  thousand  dollars  in  the  first  year." 

But  the  accursed  appetite  of  the  drunkard  had          <; 
been   formed,    and   it   proved  an   overmastering 
temptation.     A  few  days  after  the  afflicted  family          i> 
had  removed  to  their  new  abode,  I  called  in  to  see 
them.     Mr.  Fennel  was  not  at  home.     I   found          J 
the   change  indeed   a  sad  one.     From  a  large,         ,; 
elegantly  furnished  mansion,  replete  with  every- 
thing that  a  refined   and   luxurious  taste  could 
desire,  the  mother  and  her  two  daughters,  young 

|  girls  ten  and  twelve  years  of  age,  now  occupied  a          s 

5          small  house,  poorly  built  and  greatly  out  of  repair, 
"A  which,  to  them,  there  was  scarcely  a  single 

<;          convenience..   The  scanty  remnant  of  their  rich         ;! 
furniture  formed  an  unsightly  contrast  with  the 
dark,  coarse,  soiled  paper  on  the  walls,  and  the 
wooden   mantel-pieces,   window   sills  and   wash 
boards  from  which  the  paint  had  long  since  been 
worn.     As  I  took  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Fennel,  she         j; 
urst  into  tears,  and  wept  bitterly  for  some  time. 
"  It  is,  indeed,  a  sad  change,"  I  said. 
"  I  could  bear  all  this  change  with  patient  re- 
signation," she  replied,  after  she  had  gained  control 
over  her  feelings,  "  if  he  were  only  as  he  once 
was.     If  he  came  in  and  went  out  with  the  calm,          < 
pure,  well-balanced  mind  he  once  possessed.     But, 

;|          alas !  I  fear  this  will  never  be.     Daily  he  seems 

to  sink  lower  and  lower.     I  can  scarcely  believe          \ 
at  times,  that  I  am  not  in  the  midst  of  a  frightful 
dream."  ( 

She  paused,  for,  at  that  mopnent,  Annetta,  her 
eldest   daughter,  came   in.      My   feelings  were 


JACK  KETCH.  123 

touched  as  I  looked  into  the  innocent  face  of  the 
child,  over  which  was  cast  a  shade  of  unnatural 
grief.  The  young  and  pure  hearted  should  be 

$  happy.  It  is  the  dower  of  innocence.  Sad,  sad 
indeed  it  is  to  see  them  robbed  of  this  precious 
dower  !  She  came  up  to  me  and  took  my  offered 
hand,  with  downcast  eyes ;  and  then  shrunk  close 
to  the  side  of  her  mother.  I  did  not  speak  to  her, 
for  I  could  not.  Words,  I  felt,  would  be  but  an 
empty  mockery.  In  a  little  while  after,  her  sis- 
ter Marion  came  in  also,  and  after  taking  my  hand 
in  silence,  like  Annetta  sought  her  mother's  side. 
It  was  long,  very  long,  before  the  picture  of  that 

s          grief-touched  mother  and  her  two  children  nestling 

closely  to  her  side,  was  effaced  from  my  imagina-          <; 
tion.     As  for  me,  I  was  choked  up.     What  could 
I  say  ?     For  a  little  while  I  sat  in  embarrassed 
silence,  and  then,  feeling  the  insufficiency  of  all 
mere  human  efforts  to  mingle  in  this  cup  of  afflic-          ;» 
tion  even  a  single  drop  of  peace,  I  said — 
"  Let  us  pray." 

He  who  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb — 
He  who  loveth  his  children  with  unutterable  ten- 
derness— gave,  I  trust,  to  the  afflicted  mother  and 
her  children,  while  I  lifted  up  to  him  my  earnest 
supplications,  strength  to  bear  their  hard  lot.  This 
I  know — that  when  I  pressed  the  hand  of  Mrs. 
Fennel  at  parting,  her  face  wore  a  serener  aspect  > 
than  when  I  came  in — but  the  serenity  was  derived 
from  a  resolution  to  bear  her  affliction  as  sent 
from  Him  who  loveth  whom  he  chasteneth,  and 
scourgeth  every  son  whom  he  receiveth — and  this 
derivation  was  painfully  apparent. 

From  this  time  the  downward  career  of  Mr, 


!;  124  JACK   KETCH. 

Fennel  was  steady  and  rapid.     For  two  or  three 
years,  while  he  retained  his  position  as  collector, 
j|  he  supplied,  scantily,  the  wants   of  his   family.          j; 

But  constant  and  free  indulgence  of  his  appetite 
during  that  period,  gradually  increased  that  appe- 
tite, until  he  became  really  unfit  to  attend  to  busi- 
ness, and  was  removed  from  his  place. 

Now  came  severer  trials  for  his  family.     No 
employment  offering,  the  duty  of  procuring  the 
^  means  of  subsistence  at  once  devolved  upon  Mrs. 

Fennel,  and  Annetta,  now  fifteen  years  of  age. 
During  the  rapid  decadency  of  Mr.  Fennel,  the 
mother  had  devoted  many  hours  of  each  day  to 
the  instruction  of  her  two  daughters.  Well-edu- 
cated and  accomplished  herself,  she  was  able  to  do 
this  with  success.  Annetta  had  shown  from  early  £ 
years  a  talent  for  music,  which,  looking  forward, 
as  she  well  might,  to  the  time  when  she  would  be 
thrown  upon  her  own  resources  for  a  support, 
Mrs.  Fennel  had  led  her,  since  their  removal,  to 
cultivate  with  steady  assiduity.  At  the  age  of 
fifteen,  she  was,  therefore,  far  in  advance  of  most 
young  ladies,  and,  indeed,  able  to  give  lessons  in 
the  art.  Family  afflictions  always  have  the  effect 
to  develope  early  the  characters  of  children,  and 
to  give  them  thoughts,  resolution,  and  decision 
beyond  their  years.  They  had  this  effect  upon 
Annetta.  While  her  mother  was  in  sad  doubt  as 
to  what  she  would  now  do,  after  her  husband's  losa 
J>  of  his  situation,  and  even  before  any  settled  plan 
of  action  was  fixed,  Annetta  said  to  her — 

"I  believe,  mother, that  I  could  give  lessons  in 
music."  I 

Mrs.  Fennel  looked  at  her  child,  her  mind  half- 


s 

JACK   KETCH.  125 

bewildered,  for  some  moments,  really  unable  to 
think  with  sufficient  directness  of  thought,  to  de- 
cide what  reply  to  make.  Annetta  continued. 

"  Father  has  nothing  to  do  now,  and  perhaps 
will  not  get  anything  to  do  for  some  time.  We 
shall  have  to  support  ourselves.  I  am  sure  that 
I  could  give  lessons  in  music,  at  least  to  young 
scholars,  and,  if  you  are  willing,  I  will  go  to  Mrs. 
Whitmore,  who  will  do  anything  she  can  for  us, 
and  ask  her  to  try  and  get  me  some  scholars." 

Reluctantly  Mrs.  Fennel  consented  that  her 
generous,  noble-minded  child,  should  make  the 
effort  she  proposed ;  should  go  out  at  her  tender 
age,  and  enter  the  world  in  contention  for  a  living  > 
with  the  great  onward  struggling  mass.  She  was 
successful  as  she  deserved.  In  a  little  while, 
several  who  knew  her,  and  could  esteem  and  love 
her  for  her  purity  of  character,  engaged  her  to 
give  lessons  in  their  families  at  regular  hours. 
This  brought  in  a  slender  income — far  less  than 
was  required  for  the  support  of  the  family.  To 
add  to  this,  the  mother  took  in  sewing,  and  devoted 
many  hours  of  each  day  closely  to  her  needle, 
while  the  youngest  daughter  attended  to  the 
<;  household.  But  with  all  this,  they  were  able  to 
do  little  more  than  provide  food  and  clothing. 
Rent  could  not  be  paid. 

My  visits  as  clergyman  were  regular  to  this 
afflicted  family.  Sometimes  I  met  Mr.  Fennel. 
But  he  invariably  left  the  house  as  soon  as  I  camp 
in.  Several  times  I  tried  to  converse  with  him. 
But  he  turned  a  deaf  ear.  About  six  months  after 
the  loss  of  his  situation,  I  called  in.  There  was  a 
change  in  the  appearance  of  the  little  parlour,  that 
11* 


126  JACK   KETCH. 

at  first  I  could  not  make  out.  Something  was 
wanting.  What  could  it  be  ?  Ah !  The  exqui- 
sitely toned  instrument,  which  had  been  spared 
them  by  the  creditors,  was  gone.  Annetta's  piano 
was  not  in  its  wonted  plac^  !  I  understood  ip  a 
moment  the  meaning  of  tnis.  xt  haa  ot-en  sold ! 
Rent  day  had  come  round,  and  there  was  nothing 
to  satisfy  the  landlord. 

My  heart  ached,  as  it  is  too  often  made  to  ache 
over  human  distresses,  as  I  turned  away  from  my 
parishioners'  humble  abode.  They  had  not  yet 
gotten  to  the  base  of  the  declivity.  Their  feet 
were  not  yet  upon  solid  ground. 

"  How  much  lower  are  they  doomed  to  sink  ?" 
I  said,  half-aloud,  as  I  walked  slowly  away,  with 
my  eyes  upon  the  pavement. 

Alas  !  I  dreamed  not  of  the  bitter  dregs  that  lay          ;> 
at  the  bottom  of  the  cup  they  were  drinking. 

One  morning  about  six  months  from  that  time,          «J 
a  domestic  entered  my  study,  and  informed  me 
that  a  lady  was  in  the  parlour,  and  wished  to  see          ? 
me.     It  was  Mrs.  Fennel.     When  I  met  her,  I         | 
found  her  in  tears,  and  much  agitated. 

u  Is  there  anything  serious  the  matter  ?"  I  asked,          £ 
with  much  concern. 

"  0,  yes,"  she  said.  "  Last  evening  Mr.  Fen- 
nel did  not  come  home.  We  sat  up  all  night  for 
him,  in  much  alarm.  Daylight  came,  and  he  was 
still  away.  I  then  went  out  to  look  for  him,  and 
soon  learned  the  distressing  news  that  he  had  been 
sent  to  jail  by  a  man  who  had  trusted  him  for 
liquor,  until  he  tad  a  bill  of  thirty  dollars  against 
him.  ]  saw  the  man  and  plead  with  him  to  re- 


JACK  KETCH.  127 

lease  him— -but  he  peremptorily  refused,  adding 
gross  insult  to  his  refusal." 

5  I  knew  not  what  reply  to  make  to  this.     The 

first  thought  I  had,  was,  that  this  imprisonment 
might  be  productive  of  good.     Its  tendency  might 


be  to  restore  him  to  his  senses.     One,  two,  three, 


5         o*  four  months  of  confinement,  with  his  mind  un-  \ 

cA<,nea  and  unobscured  by  inebriation,  would  af- 
iord  time  for  calm  and  serious  reflection.  But  I 

?         saw  that  his  wife  was  not  prepared  to  take  this  <; 

view  of  the  subject ;  and  I  hesitated  to  present  it 
for  her  consideration.  When  I  did,  she  could  not 
bear  it. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  she  said,  the  tears  gushing  from 
her  eyes,  "  he  cannot,  he  must  not  be  in  jail.     My          < 
husband  in  jail  for  debt !     Oh,  no.     It  must  not 
be!" 

It  was  to  no  purpose  that  I  urged  the  use  to  him 
of  this  incarceration.  Her  woman's  heart  could 
not  endure  the  idea.  Reluctantly,  and  against 
my  better  judgment,  I  offered,  at  length,  to  see  a 

?         few  of  his  old  friends  and  obtain,  through  them, 

\  his  release.  I  found  no  difficulty  in  doing  this. 
The  sum  to  be  raised  was  but  a  small  one.  I  took 
it  myself f  to  the  magistrate  who  had  committed 
him,  paid  the  debt,  and  obtained  an  order  for  his 
release.  With  this  in  my  pocket,  I  went  to  the 
jail.  The  appearance  of  Mr.  Fennel  affected  me 
a  good  deal.  He  was  deeply  humbled.  When 
the  keeper  told  him  that  he  was  free  to  return  to 

i  his  family,  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and 
stood,  for  a  moment  or  two  overcome  with  emo- 
tion. I  hardly  knew  what  to  say  to  him,  or 
where  to  begin.  To  endeavour  to  deepen  and 


\_-w\/O 


123  JACK   KETCH. 

<  make  permanent  the  impression  foi  good  now 
made,  was  my  duty.  In  every  previous  attempt 
at  expostulation  I  had  been  sternly  repulsed.  It 

<!          might  be  so  again.     But  there  was  only  one  way 

before  me,  and  rough,  and  thorny,  and  full  of  diffi-         ;! 
culties  though  it  might  be,  I  could  do  no  less  than 

<!  walk  in  it.  The  iron  door  was  swung  open  by 
the  jailor,  and  Fennel  walked  forth  a  free  man. 
I  was  by  his  side,  and,  as  he  came  out,  moved  on 
in  silence,  searching  for  some  form  of  words  b}' 
which  I  might  most  safely  address  him.  While 
yet  in  doubt,  he  broke  the  embarrassing  reserve, 
by  saying,  with  much  feeling. 

"  It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had  been  spell-bound  by 
some  evil  power,  for  the  last  few  years.     I  have 

been  in  a  horrible  state,  Mr. .     But  I  have 

this  day  resolved,  that  if  I  possess  the  power,  I 

j;          will  burst  at  once  and  for  ever  the  bonds  by  which         j; 


I  have  been  so  long  held.  I  go  home  to  my  much 
enduring,  much  abused  family.  How  shall  I  meet 
them  ?  How  can  I  look  in  the  face  of  my  patient, 
long  suffering  wife,  and  my  neglected,  abused 
children?  My  heart  fails  me  when  I  think  of 
doing  so."  : 

I  encouraged  him  in  the  best  way  I  could,  and 
by  many  varied  precepts  and  illustrations,  endea- 
voured to  give  to  his  mind  some  basis  for  his  in- 
cipient and  hastily  formed  resolutions  to  rest  upon. 
He  listened  with  fixed  attention,  and  then  assured 
me,  again  and  again,  that  he  was  resolved  to  enter 
at  once  upon  a  course  of  reformation.  I  promised 
all  the  assistance  that  it  was  in  my  power  to  give 
him.  j 

The  scene,  when  we  reached  his  home,  affected 


JACK  KJ-:TCH.  129 


me  to  tears.  I  entered  with  him  and  said,  smil- 
ing, as  I  advanced  by  his  side  towards  Mrs.  Fen- 
nel, who  had  started  to  her  feet  glad,  but  irreso- 
lute— 

"  Receive  back  your  husband,  again  free.  I 
trust,  in  mind  as  well  as  body !"  |! 

"  Yes,  free  in  both  senses !"  was  his  emphatic 
response.  "  From  this  hour  I  am  resolved  to  be 
as  I  once  was.  To  have  a  sound  mind  in  a  sound 
body." 

For  a  brief  period  Mrs.  Fennel  seemed  bewil- 
dered. But  she  quickly  understood  the  words, 
and  tone,  and  manner  of  her  husband. 

"  God  be  thanked  !"  she  ejaculated,  and  then 
springing  forward,  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck 
and  laying  her  head  upon  his  bosom,  sobbed  aloud. 

When  I  left  them,  it  was  with  a  lively  hope. 
I  looked  forward  with  pleased  anticipation  to  ^ 

the  future  days  of  peace,  prosperity  and  happiness, 
for  this  long  tried,  much  enduring  family.  Alas! 
The  sun  that  shone  out  with  sudden  brightness, 
was  soon  buried  again  in  thick  clouds.  For  a  few 
days  Mr.  Fennel  remained  sober,  and  during  that 
time  obtained  employment.  But,  in  a  week  the 
morbid  appetite  which  long  indulgence  in  drink 
had  created,  proved  too  strong  for  him.  He  again 
fell,  and  into  a  lower  depth. 

I  will  not  pain  and  disgust  you  with  a  minute 
detail  of  the  gradations  through  which  he  passed 
in  his  still  further  descent — nor  with  the  too  vivid 
pictures  which  I  could  present  of  his  family's  ex- 
quisite sufferings  during  a  period  of  two  more 
years.  One  scene  more,  and  that  to  which  all 
else  I  have  related  has  only  led  me,  I  will  rebate. 

j 


130  JACK   KETCJI. 

Twice  he  was  cast  into  prison  for  debt,  and  as 
often  released  by  my  efforts,  stimulated  by  the 
urgent  importunities  of  his  wife.  Again  a  liquor 
seller  who,  in  spite  of  repeated  remonstrances, 
continued  to  trust  him,  had  him  committed  to  jail, 

J  under  the  confident  hope  that  some  of  his  old 
friends,  as  they  had  done  before  through  my  inter- 
cession, would  pay  off  the  paltry  debt.  But  this 
time  he  was  mistaken.  I  steadily  refused  to  yield 
to  Mrs.  Fennel's  tears  and  entreaties,  once  more 
to  procure  his  liberation.  He  had  been  in  jail 
about  two  weeks,  at  the  time  the  execution  al- 
luded to  took  place. 

On  the  evening  succeeding  that  horrible  tragedy, 
I  remarked  that  I  had  not  seen  Mrs.  Fennel  for 
several  days.  She  had  left  my  house,  at  our  last 
interview,  when  I  had  positively  declined  to  make 

(,  any  effort  to  procure  her  husband's  liberation,  the 

!•  image  of  sorrow.     Nothing  but  the  all-absorbing 

duty  I  had  to  perform,  in  attending  the  culprit, 
soon  to  expiate  his  crime  on  the  gallows,  could 
have  driven  that  image  from  my  mind.  It  re- 
turned again,  vividly,  when  that  solemn  duty  was 
done.  The  feelings  it  produced,  determined  me 
at  once  to  go  and  see  her. 

s  I  found  Mrs.  Fennel  deeply  depressed.     An- 

netta,  and  her  sister,  were  sad  and  gloomy.  I  had 
spoken  only  a  few  words,  when  the  street  door 

•I  was  opened  quietly.     We  listened.     The  sound 

of  well  known  footsteps  was  heard  along  the  pas- 
sage. Fennel  himself,  in  the  next  moment  stood 
before  us.  His  appearance  was  frightful.  His 
complexion,  naturally  ruddy,  was  now  of  a  pale, 
sickly  hue;  his  eyes  almost  protruding  from  his 


1 

JACK  KETCH.  131 


head,  and  his  lips  wan  as  his  cheek,  drawn  tightly 
across  his  teeth.  Mrs.  Fennel  sprang  to  her  feet 
as  he  entered  ;  but  he  did  not  seem  to  notice  her, 
and  seated  himself  slowly  and  mournfully  in  a 
chair.  To  the  eager  questions  put  to  him,  he  made 
no  reply,  but  muttered  in  a  low,  alarmed  tone,  f? 
something  which  we  could  not  at  first  understand. 
\  Every  now  and  then  he  would  start  back  and 

shudder,  and  shrink  as  from  the  effort  of  some  in-          \ 
visible  thing  to  get  hold  of  him.     Annetta  burst 
into  tears  and  wept  violently,  while  her  sister 
;>          covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  turned  away          ;> 
^          from  the  dreadful  sight.     With  my  assistance,  Mrs. 
\          Fennel  got  him  upon  the  bed,  and  at  last  soothed          ', 
him  into  something   like  rationality.     The  first 
word  that  indicated  anything  like  returning  rea-          !• 
son,  was  his  eager  exclamation  to  his  wife,  of 
'>          "  Oh,  is  it  you  ?"  and  his  clinging  to  her  arm  like 

one  awakened  from  a  terrible  nightmare.     Gradu-  . 
£          ally  he  became  composed,  and  there  was  a  calm-          ;! 
'/          ness  and  intelligence  of  manner  about  him,  such          \ 
\          as  I  had  not  observed  for  a  long  time.     But  on  his 
£          countenance   sat   an   unearthly   expression ;    and 
when  he  called  his  wife  and  children  around  him 
£          and  told  them  in  mournful  tones  that  he  was  about          t{ 
<          to  die,  I  felt  the  truth  of  his  situation.     As  we  all 


stood  by  his  side,  the  poor  man  raised  himself  up, 


';          and  spoke  his  last  words,  the  import  of  which  I 

;,          can   never   forget.     Upon   the    hearts'  of   those 

neglected  ones  who  wept  beside  him,  they  must 

have  been  graven  as  with  a  pen  of  iron.     On,  how 

my  heart  bled  for  them. 

"  Let  me  lean  on  you,  for  I  feel  myself  growing 
•!          very  weak,  and  I  must  say  something  before  I  die" 

i'  j 


r 


132  JACK   ZETCH. 

—began  the  poor  creature  looking  tp  into  hu 
wife's  face,  and  leaning  his  head  back  upon  her. 
"  You  have  been  a  good  wife  to  me — too  good, 
and  I  have  repaid  you  sadly  for  your  devotion. 
And  you,  my  dear  child,  Annetta,  give  me  your 
hand — how  poor  it  is .' — your  father  has  not  cared 
for  you  as  he  should  have  cared  for  you,  yet  he 
always  loved  the  sight  of  your  sweet,  patient  face, 
though  he  felt  so  guilty  in  your  presence  that  he 
could  not  speak  to  you  familiarly  and  pleasantly, 
and  was  often  rough  and  apparently  unkind  to 
£  stifle  feelings  of  mortification  that  came  over  him  ', 
when  he  looked  upon  the  child  he  had  so  terribly 
wronged.  And  Marion  too ;  can  you  forgive  the 
father  who  has  broken  your  young  spirits,  and 
made  your  lot  hard  to  be  borne  ?  I  would  not 
offer  excuse  for  my  dreadful  conduct,  but  must 


say,  that  the  conflicts  and  agonies  of  mind  I  have 
endured  from  time   to  time   have   been   awful.          j; 
There   have   been  many  moments  in  which   it          I; 
seemed  that  reason  must  desert  its  throne — but  old 
habits  and  confirmed  appetites  have  over  mastered          t 
my  resolutions,  and  I  have  gone  on  and  on,  ever 
intending  to  stop  somewhere,  until  I  have  come 
now  to  the  final  hour  of  my  life,  and  my  last  days 
have  been  wo'rst  of  all."  '^ 

"Oh,  father — dear  father!  say  no  more  about 
it — you  will  break  my  heart  if  you  talk  so,"  said 
Annetta,  with  tears  rolling  in  great  drops  down 
her  pale  cheeks. 

"  Bless  you  my  good  child  for  those  kind  words : 
It  is  long,  long  since  I  have  heard  you  say  '  dear 
father.'  But  I  have  that  to  tell  which  I  must 
utter,  though  I  would  fain  spare  you  all  a  keener 


i--*~-f\/\.'Vw-. 


JACK  KETCH.  133 

anguish  than  you  now  feel.     I  have  been  almost, 
forced,  through  my  degradation,  to  do  an  act  that  i> 

has  broken  my  heart.     I  knew  not  that  old  feel-  o 

£          ings  would  come  back  upon  me  so  overwhelmingly 

— I  had  begun  to  think  myself  callous  to  all  emo-  fi 

tion  ;  but  the  current  was  checked,  not  altogether  ?. 

dried  up.     You  all  know  that  I  have  been  con- 

't          fined  in  jail  for  two  weeks  5  but  you  know  not 

how  I  have  been  liberated."  \ 

Here  the  poor  man  shuddered,  and  covering  hia 
face  with  his  hands,  wept   bitterly  as   a  child. 
After  a  few  moments  he  recovered  himself — and          -i 
continued  :• — 

"  There  seemed  no  chance  of  my  speedy  libera- 
tion, as  the  hard-hearted  man  who  had  put  me  in          <j 
jail,  seemed  determined  to  spend  in  my  confine-          ;> 


ment,  through  anger,  as  much  money  as  I  owed          J; 
him.     The  first  three  days  of  my  confinement,  as 
I  was  allowed  no  liquor,  came  very  near  driving          ;> 
me  mad.     Oh  !  I  cannot  describe  the  intolerable          I; 
'<f          thirst  I  endured  through  three  sleepless  nights  and 
|>          days.     You  came  to  see  me,  but  you  knew  nothing 
of  my  sufferings.     I  begged  the  keeper,  I  begged 
you  for  liquor,  hut  it  was  denied  me,  while  I  en- 

4  dured  what  seemed  a  hell  of  torments.     I  wonder 
|          that  I  survived  the  struggle — hundreds  have  died 

in  it.     A  little  laudanum  which  I  succeeded  in 
>          procuring,  probably  saved  me  from  a  terrible  death.  • 
It  stimulated  me  just  sufficient  to  keep  off  deliri  vm 
tremens,  and  saved  me  from  death  in  that  awful  state          s 
in  which  the  drunkard  dies.     But  nature  had  b^en 
exhausted  and  could  not  rally,  and   I  awoke  at 
s          once  to  the  fearful   condition  in  which   I  was 
placed.     Unless  I  could  get  out  and  get  to  my 

5  i  o  f 


I  > 

134  JACK   KETCH. 


home  I  feared  that  hope  was  gone.     HITB  I  fondly 
thought  I  might  be  mended  up  a  little,  through  your 
kind  ministrations.     The  fatal  cup  I  was  enabled          ? 
in  firm  resolution  to  renounce,  though  I  felt  that 
it  was  death  almost  to  do  so.     My  purpose  was 
fixed  to  retrace,  as  far  as  power  was  given,  my          > 
former  steps,  and  if  I  perished  in  my  resolution,  I          !; 
would  perish.     Only  one  way  was  offered  me  of          ] 
escape,  and  such  a  way  !     The  Sheriff  proposed  to 
pay  my  debt  if  I  would  relieve  him  from  the 
hangman's  duty.     I  could  have  spurned  him  to  the          •! 
earth  when  he  first  made  the  proposition,  but  hope 
of  deliverance  being  almost  gone,  and  finding  my-          tj 
self  sinking  fast,  I  at  length  reluctantly  consented.          <I 

$  For  three  days  before  the  execution,  I  neither  eat 
nor  slept.  My  food  I  could  not  swallow,  and  I 
sought  the  sweet  oblivion  of  sleep  in  vain.  This 
morning,  I  nerved  myself  for  the  dreadful  task, 

<|  conscious  that  I  was  doing  my  last  work  on  earth 

^  — I  did  shrink  for  a  moment,  but  the  thought  of 
liberty  was  sweet,  and  I  wanted  to  dk  at  home — 
even  though  I  had  brought  there  sorrow  and  deso- 
lation. In  the  final  arrangements  I  adjusted  the 

I;  rope,  and  placed  with  a  steady  hand  the  fatal  knot 
beneath  the  victim's  ear,  while  he,  poor  wretch, 
shook  with  a  worse  than  mortal  agony.  When  I 
drew  the  cap  over  his  eyes,  and  shut  out  from 
him  for  ever  the  light  of  the  sun,  I  felt  as  if  I  was 
myself  suffocating ;  but  I  shrunk  not  fiom  my 
fearful  task,  and  when  the  moment  had  come, 
knocked  away  the  fatal  prop  that  had  supported  <j 
the  slender  plank  upon  which  rested  the  criminal's 
feet.  Poor  wretch !  he  surely  did  not  suffer  more 
than  his  executioner.  How  bitterly  did  I  repent 


JACK    KflCH.  135 


me  of  what  I  had  done,  when  I  saw  his  dreadful 
struggles  in  the  air !  But  I  had  finished  my  work, 
and  hastening  back  to  the  prison,  threw  off  my 
disguise,  and  in  a  few  moments  was  breathing  the 
air  as  a  freeman.  From  that  time  until  a  few 
minutes  since,  I  have  been  utterly  unconscious  of 
existence.  Where  I  have  been  I  know  not,  but  I 
am  here  now,  and  I  feel  that  it  is  to  die." 

The  poor  wretch  then  sunk  back  upon  his  pil- 
low with  a   deep  groan.     His  words  were   pro-          j! 
phetic.     Death   had  indeed  marked  him  for  his          { 
victim.     Nature  could  no  longer  endure  the  shocks 
she  had  been  compelled  to  sustain.     An  hour  after,          > 
and  we  stood  around  the  bed  upon  which  lay  the 
mortal  wreck  of  one  who  had  been  a  bright  and 
shining  light  in   society  for  a   time — but  whose          jj 
light,  alas  !  had  long  before  grown  dim. 

The  next  time  I  called  upon  my  lady  friends, 
who  had  been  so  bitter  in  their  invectives  against          !> 
poor  Jack  Ketch,  I  related  my  friend  the  clergy- 
man'«  story.     They  knew  him  well,  and  also  the 
family  to  which  his  story  related.     The  current 


of  their  sympathies  receding,  turned  into  a  new 


channel.  I  ventured  to  read  them  a  little  homily 
on  appearances  and  realities,  which  they  bore 
quite  patiently,  and  then  proposed  some  action  for 
the  relief  of  Mrs.  Fennel  and  her  family,  in  which 
1  encouraged  them.  These  kind  attentions,  I  am 
£  happy  to  say,  did  not  remain  unproductive  in 

their  minds.     Mrs.  Fennel  and  her  two  daughters          i 
were  soon  after  placed  in  a  situation  much  more 
suited  to  their  tastes  and  feelings,  and  are  now 
supporting  themselves  comfortably,  surrounded  by          \ 
many  kir.d  and  congenial  friends. 

*~**-*r^s*-'   -^r\ 


"  I  AM   going  down  to  Leland's,  Anna,"  said 
William  Snyder,  taking  up  his  hat  one  evening 
after  tea,  and  moving  towards  the  door. 
J;  "  To  Leland's !"  replied  the  wife  in  a  voice  of 

surprise,  turning  pale  as  she  spoke.  And  well  she 
might  turn  pale ;  for  Snyder  was  a  reformed  man, 
and  Leland's  was  a  tavern  near  by,  where  he  had, 
in  former  times,  squandered  hundreds  of  dollars  in 
brutalizing  self-indulgence,  that  should  have  been 
expended  on  his  wife  and  children. 

"  Yes,  to  Leland's,"  said  Snyder,  smiling  at  his 
wife's  sudden  alarm.  "  But  not  to  drink,  Anna. 
£Tever  fear  that." 

"  Then  why  do  you  visit  so  dangerous  a  place  ?" 

"  Oh !  don't  you  know  ?  We  have  our  Head 
Quarters  there." 

"  What  Head  Quarters,  William?" 

"  The  Head  Quarters  of  our  party  in Ward.          ] 

The Club  meets  there  to-night,  and  I  thought 

I  would  drop  in  and  see  how  things  look.  The 
election  will  take  place  in  about  ten  days." 

"  But  why  do  you  have  your  Head  Quarters  at 
a  tavern?" 

"  It  ought  not  to  be  there.  But  it  if  very  diffi- 
cult to  get  a  hall  anywhere  else.  Those  who  have 


THE   CLUB   AOOM.  137 

su  t   places  to  let,  do  not  like  to  make  tfiem  so 
p»  *  ic,   except    tavern   keepers,   and    they   are 


ays  ready  to  accommodate  either  party  with 


•  ms,  as  election  times  draw  near." 
"  Why    are    they    so    very    accommodating  ? 
5  jrely  not  from  their  disinterested  love  of  serv 

mg  the  public."  !> 

"  Oh  no !  but  from  their  love  of  serving  them- 
selves. It  is  one  means  of  drawing  a  crowd,  and 

<  where  there  is  a  crowd,  especially  when  congre- 
gated for  electioneering  purposes,  you  will  always          ^ 
find  enough  ready  to  drink." 

"  I  understand  now."  And  Mrs.  Snyder's  face 
brightened :  "  but  as  a  temperance  man,  I  really 
think  I  would  not  be  seen  at  any  Head  Quarters, 
or  Club  rooms,  if  they  were  in  taverns." 

"I  think  it  wrong  to  have  them  there,"  the 
husband  said,  in  a  serious  voice ;  "  but  we  can't 
expect  to  reform  everything  in  a  day.  The  suc- 
cess of  our  principles,  at  the  coming  election,  I 
feel  to  be  a  matter  of  great  importance ;  and  so  jj 
does  every  intelligent  man  in  the  party.  We 
must  have  a  rallying  point  at  some  public  accessible 
place,  and  are  compelled  to  take  the  best  that  offers." 

"  It  may  be  all  right ;  I  hope  it  is."  Mrs. 
Snyder  remarked,  doubtfully.  "  But  I  am  afraid 
that  some  weak  ones  may  be  led  estray  by  this 
device  of  the  enemy." 

"  There  may  be  danger  to  certain  of  our  tempe- 
rance men  who  are  not  as  much  governed  by 
principle  as  they  should  be.  But  the  evil  cannot 
be  abated  at  once.  By  the  next  election,  I  hope 

<  we  shall  have  a  reform  even  in  this  matter." 

"  I  hope  so,"  returned  the  wife  thoughtfully. 
12* 

L~- 


138  THE   CLUB   ROOM. 

"  Good  night,  Anna ;  I  shall  not  be  gone  long," 
William  Snyder  said,  in  a  cheerful  voice,  turning 
away,  and  leaving  the  house.  -f 


Anna  drew  a  long,  sighing  breath,  and  resumed 
<!  her  needle,  that  had  rested  idly  in  her  fingers, 

while  she  held  the  above  brief  conversation.     As 
she  did  so,  she  felt  a  weight  upon  her  heart.     She 
tried  to  throw  this  off,  and  chid  herself  for  the 
5  doubt  of  her  husband's  firmness  to  the  temperance 

!>  principles  he  had  espoused,  that  it  involved.     But 


she  could  not  help  feeling  troubled. 


When  Snyder  reached  Leland's  tavern,  he  found 
the  bar,  through  which  he  was  compelled  to  pass 
in  his  way  to  the  meeting  room,  filled  with  loud 
talking  and  hard  drinking  politicians. 

"  Tf  here  isn't  Bill  Snyder!"  exclaimed  an  old 
crony,  as  he  entered.  "  Why,  hallo !  Bill — How 
are  you1?  Give  us  your  fist,  old  fellow!  I 
declare,  it  does  one's  eyes  good  to  see  you  here. 
Many  a  jolly  time  you  and  I  have  had  in  this  spot 
before  the  temperance  chaps  caught  you.  Come ' 
you  shall  drink  with  me  to  Auld  Lang  Syne." 

And  he  caught  Snyder  by  the  arm  and  attempted 
to  pull  him  towards  the  bar. 

"  No — no — Larry  !  when  I  signed  the  pledge, 
I  meant  to  keep  it,"  he  replied  firmly,  although 
he  felt  a  great  deal  confused.  "  I  don't  drink 
any  more." 

"You  don't!  They  said  you  did'nt;  but  I 
never  just  believed  it.  I  was  sure  you  took  a  little  ^ 
on  the  sly.  And  I  believe  it  still.  Bill  Snyder 
can  no  more  do  without  liquor  than  a  fish  can  do 
without  water.  Isn't  it  so?  old  coon!  Say? 
Speak  out  Jiko  a  man,  and  tell  the  truth." 


^•-n-"-> 

THE   CLUB   ROOM.  139 

Seeing  that  the  man  was  half  intoxicated,  Sny- 
der  turned  from  him,  and  went  up  stairs  to  the 
club  room.     Here  he  met  with  a  large  number  of 
£          the  friends  of  the  party,  who  were  reading  ex- 
tracts  from   distant    papers    containing    election 
$          returns,  and  commenting  upon  them ;  and  others 
;>          in  earnest  conversation  on  the  ways  and  means 

necessary  to  be  adopted  to  swell  the  party  vote.         ^ 
<          With  one  and  the  other  of  these,  as  suited  his 
£          feelings,  Snyder  mingled,  and  became  as  fully  ab- 
\          sorbed  in  the  discussions  that  were  going  on  as 
any  in  the  room.    He  took  no  note  of  time, — hours 
passed  away,  and  he  was  still  unwearied. 

"Eleven  o'clock,  as  I  live!"  remarked  an  indi- 
vidual with  whom  he  was  conversing,  glancing  at 
his  watch. 

"  It  is  impossible !"  returned  Snyder. 
"  It  is  too  true.     I  had  no  idea  it  was  as  late  as 
even  nine.     I  must  hurry  home."  $ 

"So  must  I.  Who  could  have  dreamed  that 
time  would  pass  so  rapidly  ?" 

There  were  not  many  besides  themselves  in  the 
room,  nor  in  the  bar  below,  through  which  they  s' 
had  to  pass  to  reach  the  street.  As  they  descended 
and  walked  near  the  bar,  behind  which  stood  Le- 
land  himself,  ready  to  serve  his  customers,  and 
looked  into  the  tavern-keeper's  face,  they  felt  a 
slightly  unpleasant  sensation.  Both  were  tempe- 
rance men. 

"  Really,  it  made  me  feel  downright  mean  to 
walk  through  the  bar,  and  not  spend  a  cent  with 
the  man  who  has  given  us  the  use  of  his  fine  room 


for  a  mere  song,"  remarked  the  companion. 


"  So  it  did  me,"  replied  Snyder.     "I  wish  our 


140  THE   CLUB   ROOM.  ff 

club  would  get  a  meeting  room  somewhere  else. 
I  dislike  dreadfully  to  go  through  that  bar,  espe- 
cially when  I  do  not  feel  at  liberty  to  call  for 
anything." 

"  We  can't  get  a  room  anywhere  else.  So  this 
must  be  borne  with.  The  elections  will  soon  be 
over.  Old  Leland  gets  well  paid,  I'll  guarantee, 
or  he  would  not  let  us  have  it.  There  are  enough 
who  drink  with  him." 

"  Yes — I  suppose  so.  Enough,  and  more  than 
enough."  As  Snyder  said  this,  the  two  men 
parted,  and  took  different  directions  to  their  re- 
spective homes. 

In  spite  of  all  she  could  do  to  keep  down  her 
feelings,  the  wife  whom  we  have  seen  left  alone, 
found  it  impossible  not  to  be  troubled.  The  shock 
which  her  husband's  sudden  declaration  had  given 
her,  had  unsettled  her  nerves,  and  she  struggled 
in  vain  to  recover  the  even  flow  of  spirits  that  had 
blessed  her  for  many  days,  and  weeks  and  months. 
Ever  and  anon  the  thought  would  intrude  itself, 
that  her  husband  might  be  tempted  to  break  his 
pledge.  As  often  as  it  did  so,  she  would  reject  it 
with  self-upbraidings ;  but  in  spite  of  every  effort, 
the  fearful  idea  would  again  present  itself,  to  be 
again  rejected.  $ 

Thus  the  evening  passed. 

"  So  late !"  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  dropping 
her  work  and  starting  to  her  feet  as  the  watch- 
man's cry  of  "  past  ten  o'clock,"  fell  unexpectedly 
upon  her  ear.  "  What  can  keep  him  ?" 

She  went  to  the  door,  and  stepping  out  upon         \ 
the  pavement,  looked  long  and  intently  in  the  di- 
rection from  which  her  husband  should  come,  but 


I 


THE   CLUB   ROOM.  141 


his  form  could  not  be  distinguished.     At  last  she 

went  into  the  house,  sighing  heavily  as  she  closed 

the  door  after  her,  and  sitting  down  by  her  little 

;I          work  table,  attempted  to  sew.     But  her  mind  was         \ 

;>          too  much  troubled  to  continue  this  employment — 

she  laid  aside  the  garment  upon  which  she  was         <! 
employed,  and  leaning  her  head  upon  her  hand  as 
she  bent  over  the  table,  listened  for  her  husband's 
approach.     Soon  her  mind  began  to  go  back  to          s 
former  days — days  of  which  she  had  not  thought, 
>          except  in  pleasing  contrast,  for  now  more  than  two 
years.     For  a  long,  long  time- — a  time  that  to 
think  of  seemed  an  age,  Anna  Snyder  had  been          ;> 
that  wretched  creature,  a  drunkard's  wife.     Earth          ^ 
has  many,  alas !  too  many  forms  and  conditions  of 
misery,  and  in  the  most  acute  of  these,  woman  has 
,;          the  severest  part  to  bear :  but  I  know  not,  if  there          <) 
\         be  anything  in  the  cup  of  human  woe  that  woman          4 
has  to  drink  to  the  dregs,  so  full  of  bitterness,  as 
that  which  passes  the  lips  of  the  drunkard's  wife. 
\         You  who  see  only  the  staggering  inebriate,  or  hear 
jj         only  his  senseless  tattle,  can  form  no  idea  of  what 

impression  he  makes  at  home.     You  cannot  feel          <, 
\         how  cold  and  dark  the  shadow  of  his  presence          ;j 
5          makes  the  heart  of  his  wife.     You  know  nothing 
of  what  she  thinks  and  suffers  while  he  is  away 
and  she   anxiously   awaits    his   delayed    return,          $ 
ij          hoping,  yet  with  too  certain  fears  well  nigh  suffo- 
cating all  hope : — nor  of  the  shuddering  chill  that 
passes  through  both  body  and  soul,  as  he  enters 
with  the  red  mark  of  the  beast  upon  him.     Ah  ! 
f         But  this  is  not  all.   There  is  the  pure  love  of  early          ^ 
years,  turned  into  hatred — the  words  of  endear- 
ment changed  to  bitter  invective,  and  the  hard, 

-_-j. 


142  THE    CLUB    ROOM. 


cruel  blows  for  the  tender  caress!  These,  all 
these,  and  more,  has  the  poor  wife  to  bear.  These, 
all  these,  and  more,  had  Anna  borne  for  years, 
while  her  husband  worshipped  at  the  bacchanalian 
shrine.  Well  might  she  tremble  at  the  terrible 
/  fear  that  haunted  her.  < 

For  nearly  half  an  hour  she  sat  leaning  her 
head  upon  her  hand,  as  we  have  seen,  dark  images 
of  past  times  crowding  in,  and  pressing  down  upon 
her  heart  with  an  unendurable  weight.  At  last, 
arousing  up,  and  turning  away,  shuddering  from 
some  fearful  image,  she  clasped  her  hands  together, 
and  lifting  up  her  large  dark  eyes,  that  were  filled 
with  tears,  murmured — 

"  Father  in  heaven,  forbid  it !     Keep  him  from 
the  fowler's  snare  !     Save  him  from  the  horrible         ;> 
pit !» 

Then  bowing  her  head  again,  she  let  it.  fall  even 
to  the  table,  and  wept  passionately.     After  awhile 
this  emotion  subsided,  and  a  deep  calm  fell  upon         <; 
her  spirits.      But  this  could   not  long   remain. 
There  were  causes  of  disquiet  that  would  not  be         \ 
inactive.     Just  as  her  feelings  were  again  about          :; 
rising  into  agony,  the  door  was  quietly  opened  by 
her  husband.     One  look  satisfied  her  that  all  was 
right.     Instinctively  she  felt  the  propriety  of  not 
permitting  him  to  see  how  much  his  prolonged 
absence  had  disturbed  her.     With  a  strong  effort 
she  controlled  herself,  and  said  only, 

"  William,  how  could  you  stay  out  so  ?" 

"  I  didn't  dream  that  it  was  eleven  o'clock,"  he 
replied  kindly ;  "  I  was  so  interested  in  conversa- 
tion that  I  never  thought  of  time.  But  I  '11  take 
better  care  in  future." 


so  good-bye,  Anna." 

"Yes,  do  come  home,  soon.  Don't  be  out 
after  ten  o'clock."  She  said,  as  he, was  closing 
the  door. 

To  Leland's,  Snyder  went  direct.  In  passing 
through  the  bar,  he  was  again  taunted  by  one  of 
his  old  cronies  with  his  temperance  principles. 

"  Don't  you  like  the  very  smell  of  this  place7" 


;>  THE  CLUB  ROOM.  J43 

Anna  could  not  help  upbraiding  herself  for  hei 
foolish  fears,  that  reflected  so  much  upon  her  hus- 
band's integrity. 

"  I  am  a  weak,  foolish  woman,  I  know,  but  how          j> 
can  I  help  it  ?"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  lay  awake 
lor  a  long  time  after  retiring  to  bed.     The  excite- 
<;          ment  under  which  she  had  laboured,  prevented 
;>          sleep  from  stealing  sweetly  over  her  senses. 

On  the  next  night,  Snyder  remained  home  as  he 
had  long  been  in  the  habit  of  doing,  and  read 
aloud,  while  his  wife  was  engaged  in  sewing. 
But  on  the  succeeding  evening,  he  told  Anna  that 
he  was  again  going  down  to  the  Head  Quarters  of 
the Club. 

"How  can  you  go  to  such  a  place  as  Leland's  ?" 
his  wife  said  with  a  tender,  coaxing  voice,  laying 
her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  looking  at  him 
earnestly.  ;> 

"  I  don't  like  to  go,  Anna.  But  our  Head  Quar- 
ters you  know  are  there,  and  there  is  no  avoiding 
it.  By  the  next  election,  I  sincerely  trust  that 
we  shall  be  able  to  make  a  much  better  selection 
than  a  tavern.  It  is  disgraceful.  Were  it  not 
that  I  feel  it  to  be  my  duty  as  a  good  citizen  to  jj 
promote  the  interest  of  our  party,  I  should  not  put 
my  foot  into  the  place.  But  I  shall  be  home  early, 


144  THE    CLUB    ROOM.  j! 

said  the  half  tipsy  bar-room  lounger.      "Yes,  1 
know  you  do.     Come,  take  a  drink !"  £ 

Snyder  felt  a  good  deal  annoyed  by  this,  and, 
a  little  to  his  own  surprise,  half  ashamed  of  his 
position  as  a  teetotaller.      But  he   escaped   up 
stairs  to  the  club  room  as   quickly  as   possible,          \ 
followed  by  a  hearty  peal  of  laughter. 

"It 's  a  downright  shame  to  have  our  Head  Quar- 
ters in  a  rum  hole  like  this,  where  every  tempe- 
rance man  must  be  insulted  if  he  venture  to  come," 
he  said,  indignantly,  to  a  friend  whom  he  met 
above. 

"  Or,  worse,  be  sorely  tempted,  if  there  be  about 
him  a  lingering  weakness,  as  some  of  our  folks  too 
evidently  have." 

"It  is  a  great  evil." 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  it.  If  at  least  a  dozen 
temperance  men  in  this  ward  do  not  go  back  from 
their  good  principles  and  good  habits  before  the 
election,  it  will  be  a  miracle.  Appearances  are 
strongly  against  them." 

"  Can  you  mention  any  ?" 

"  I  could,  but  had  rather  not.  I  hope  the  result 
may  be  different ;  but  I  am  afraid.  Already  ] 
have  seen  a  number  buying  cigars  at  the  bar ;  and 
one  or  two  taking  lemonade  with  friends  who 
drank  brandy  and  gin.  I  don't  like  to  see  this. 
A  reformed  man  should  never,  if  possible  to  avoid 
it,  come  into  a  bar-room,  much  less  stand  beside 
the  bar,  and  drink  there  even  a  glass  of  cold  water. 
There  is  power  in  old  associations,  and  a  very 
dangerous  power,  when  these  have  been  connected 
with  allurements  to  evil.  There  is  only  one  law 
for  us ;  the  law  of,  Touch  not,  taste  not,  handle 


THE   CLUB   ROOM.  145 

not.  Standing  beside  this  we  are  safe.  But  if  we 
take  one  step  from  it,  we  are  in  the  midst  of  a 
down-rushing  river.  Nothing  but  super-human 
strength  can  save  us." 

"  There — there — that  will  do,"  said  one  who 
had  been  standing  by.  "  We  don't  come  here  to 
have  discussions  on  Temperance." 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news  from ?" 

"No!  what  is  it *» 

"  We  are  bearing  everything  before  us. 


has  been  elected,  by  a  thousand  majority.     Last 


-  -        i 

year  we  were   beaten   there   by  two  thousand.          s 
Glorious,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Cheering  news,  truly.     When  did  it  come  ?" 

"  By  the  cars,  this  afternoon.  And  then,  the 
accounts  from  the  south  and  west  are  all  of  the 
most  gratifying  character.  Everything  begins  to 
brighten.  We  shall  beat  everywhere."  < 

Others  joined  the  little  group  of  three,  an  ani- 
mated conversation  and  discussion  followed,  which 
continued  for  an  hour,  when  some  one  drew  Sny- 
der  by  the  arm  and  whispered  in  his  ear. 

"Come,  let's  go  dowa  stairs,  and  have  some 
oysters." 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated.  When  the  other 
said — 

"  We  can  eat,  if  we  can't  drink,  certainly.  It 's 
mean  to  use  Leland's  house  if  we  don't  recom- 
pense him  in  some  way." 

Snyder  hesitated  no  longer.  He  went  down 
stairs,  and  retired  with  his  friend  to  a  box,  after 
they  had  ordered  two  plates  of  oysters,  fried.  In 
th^  course  of  ten  minutes  the  oysters  were  served. 

13 


1VJ  THE    CLUB   ROOM. 

They  had  eaten  about  half  of  them,  when  the 
friend  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  said, 
\  "  This  is  confounded  dry  eating,  Snyder  !" 

"  It 's  a  fact,"  was  the  unhesitating  reply.  "  1 
wonder  if  they  have  any  coffee  at  the  bar  ?" 

"  We  '11  see."     And  the  table  bell  was  rung. 

"  Any  coffee  ?"  was  asked  of  the  attendant,  who 
answered  the  summons. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Bring  us  two  cups,  then." 

The  coffee  was  served. 

"  Ah,  yes.  This  helps  the  matter  amazingly," 
said  Snyder's  friend.  "  Oysters  must  have  some- 
thing to  wash  thim  down,  or  they  're  not  worth 
having." 

"  True,"  was  the  acquiescing  response. 

After  they  had  eaten  their  oysters,  the  two  men 
sat  conversing  for  some  time.  They  were  both 
signers  of  the  pledge.  Snyder  objected  to  the  fact 
of  meeting  in  a  tavern.  But  his  friend  vindicated 
it,  on  the  ground  that  a  much  larger  number  of  per- 
sons would  congregate  at  a  public  house, — persons 
of  no  decided  political  principles,  who  might  be 
brought  to  see  the  leading  claims  of  the  party  for 
support. 

"  Besides,"  he  added,  "  it  is  very  difficult  to  get 
a  room  for  this  purpose  anywhere  else.  But  I  am 
not  one  who  sees  so  great  an  objection  as  you  do 
to  holding  our  meeting  here.  We  need  not  drink 
without  we  choose." 

"  But,  remember,  that  there  are  a  great  many 
weak  ones." 

"  I  would  not  give  a  fig  for  a  temperance  man 
who  could'nt  stand  the  sight,  and  smell  of  a  brandy 


THE    CLUB   ROOM.  14T 

t 

bottle  fur  a  month.  Not  I !  He  '11  violate  his 
pledge,  sooner  or  later,  at  the  best.  It 's  no  use, 
Snyder,  to  keep  liquor  out  of  the  sight  of  men  who 
still  hanker  after  it, — if  it  does  not  come  to  them, 
they  will  in  the  end,  go  to  it,  you  may  depend." 

Snyder  shook  his  head  at  this.      He  had  felt          \ 
stronger  temptations  since  coming  into  Leland's  <; 

bar-room,  than  had  assailed  him,  from  the  hour  he  ;> 

put  his  hand  to  the  pledge. 

;>  "  It  is  much  better  to  keep  out  of  harm's  way,3* 

\         he  simply  remarked.  $ 

"  What  ?     Are  you  afraid  of  yourself "?" 
"  No.     I  cannot  say  that  I  am.     I  alluded  to 

s'          the  weak  ones  I  spoke  of  just  now.     But,  as  I  live,  £ 

\         it  is  ten  o'clock ;  I  must  go  home." 

The  two  left  the  box  together,  and  went  to  the 

<!          bar  to  pay  for  their  coffee  and  oysters.  ^ 

;}  "  Ah !    How  are  you,  Snyder  ?     I  am  glad  to          /, 

see  your  face  again,"  said  Leland,  smiling,  and 
reaching  over  his  hand. 

%  Snyder  felt  reluctant,  but  he   could  not  help 

taking  the  landlord's  proffered  hand. 

"  I  hope  this  is  not  the  last  time  I  shall  see  you 
here,"  Leland  continued.  "  I  still  keep  the  best 
oysters,  and  my  coffee  is  famed.  A  great  many 
of  your  temperance  men  visit  me.  I  make  ten 
gallons  of  coffee  now  where  I  used  to  make  one."  «; 

Snyder  said  very  little  in  reply  to  this,  and  got 
away  as  quickly  as  he  could.  In  walking  home, 
he  did  not  feel  the  quiet  that  was  usually  his  por- 
tion. The  sayings  and  doings  of  the  evening  had 
disturbed  his  state  of  mind.  He  was  conscious 
that  there  was  danger  in  visiting  the  club  room, 
and  yet  he  could  not  entertain,  for  a  moment,  the 


148  THE   CLUB   zwOOM. 

thought  of  not  going  there.      In  fact,  he  fell 
strongly  drawn  to  the  place  he  had  for  two  years          £ 
avoided  with  a  settled  aversion. 

On  entering  his  comfortable  little  home,  he 
found  his  wife  engaged,  as  was  her  custom,  in 
sewing.  There  was  something  in  the  expression 
of  her  eyes,  as  they  rested  steadily  upon  him, 
that  he  did  not  understand  fully.  Was  it  a  suspi- 
cion of  his  faithfulness  to  his  pledge  ?  This  was 
the  first  thought  presented  to  his  mind,  and  doubt- 
less, because  such  was  the  real  truth. 

The  pleasant  smile,  that  in  an  instant  after 
beamed  over  Mrs.  Snyder's  countenance,  dispelled 
the  forming  cloud. 

For  two  or  three  nights  after  this,  Willia-m  Sny- 
der  remained  at  home  with  his  wife  ; — but, 

"  I  believe  I  will  step  down  to  Head  Quarters, 
for  a  little  while  this  evening,"  the  dreaded  words 
for  his  wife's  ear,  at  length  came. 

"  0  no,  William,  don't  go,"  Anna  said,  almost 
without  thought.  It  was  feeling  that  spoke. 

"  Why  not  ?"  Snyder's  brow  slightly  contracted 
as  he  made  the  interrogation. 

"  Because  I  want  you  to  stay  home  with  me." 

"  Have'nt  I  stayed  home  with  you  every  night, 
for  a  long  time  ?  Election  comes  only  once  a 
year,  and  I  am  sure  you  might  spare  me  a  few 
times,  then." 

"  Yes,  I  know  I  ought  not  to  be  selfish.  But 
indeed,  William,"  and  she  looked  into  his  face 
with  a  glance  of  deep  love,  "  I  am  never  so  happy 
as  when  you  are  with  me.  All  through  the  day, 
I  know  you  have  to  be  absent,  and  a  sense  of  duty 
reconciles  me  to  this.  But  I  feel  that  I  have  a 


THE    CLTJB    ROOM.  M9  >f 


"i 

%  right  to  you  in  the  evening,  and  it  goes  hard  with 
me  to  relinquish  that  right.  Besides,  I  had  a 
dream  lasi  night,  that  has  troubled  me  all  day.  I 
wish  you  would  stay  at  home,  William." 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  Anna,  dreams  are  nothing. 
I  really  thought  you  were   a  woman  of  strong 

<          mind."    Snyder  said  this  with  some  impatience  of 

>          manner.     "  But   good    night,"    he    added,   in   a 

gentler  tone.     "  Good-night — I  shall  not  be  long  '? 

away." 

;>  The  door  that  was  closed  after  her  husband, 

jarred  on  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Snyder.    She  sat  down,  ^ 

from  a  sudden  physical  exhaustion.      Why  she 
should  feel  so  deeply  troubled  she  knew  not.     But          ;; 
deeply  troubled  in  spirit  she  was.     She  would  not 

$  permit  herself  to  think  that  her  husband  could 
be  tempted  to  break  his  pledge.  If  thoughts  of 
this  nature  presented  themselves,  they  were  in- 

'/  stantly  rejected,  with  something  of  indignation. 
And  yet  she  was  suffering  deeply,  and  the  real 
cause,  acknowledged  to  herself,  was  dread  lest  he 
should  enter  into  and  fall  into  temptation.  After  a 
time,  she  turned  mechanically  to  her  usual  evening 
occupation.  She  had  three  children,  between  the 
ages  of  four  and  twelve,  and  to  do  the  sewing  for 

<;         these,  was  no  light  task.     For  an  hour,  she  forced 

'f  herself  to  keep  plying  her  needle  ;  but  after  that, 
her  internal  agitation  became  too  strong.  She  laid 

<!  her  work  aside,  and,  taking  a  candle,  went  up  stairs 
to  the  room  where  her  children  were  sleeping, 
and  holding  it  so  that  the  light  would  fall  upon  ;> 
their  faces,  stood  over  them  fur  some  time.  Then 
turning  away  with  a  sigh,  she  went  down  stairs, 
and  tried  again  to  sew.  But  the  attempt  was  use- 

j 


150  THE    CLUB    ROOM. 

less.     She  had  so  little  heart  to  work,  that  her  fin 
gers  refused  to  perform  the  task  assigned  them. 

Meantime,  William  Snyder  was  mingling  with 
his  political  friends  at  Leiand's,  and  feeling  much 
more  at  home  in  the  old  place,  than  he  had  sup- 
posed it  possible  for  him  to  be. 

"  Come !  Let 's  go  down  and  take  a  drink," 
were  words  so  frequently  said  in  his  hearing,  that 
they  had  ceased  to  affect  him  unpleasantly.  But 
the  too  oft  repeated  jibe  at  his  temperance  princi- 
ples, by  some  old  crony,  worried  him  a  good 


deal. 


Towards  nine  o'clock,  he,  with  three  political 
friends,  one  of  them  a  teetotaller,  went  down  into 
the  bar  to  get  some  oysters. 

"  We  must  have  something  to  drink,"  said  one 
of  the  company,  after  the  oysters  were  served. 
"  What  will  you  take,  Snyder  ?" 

"  A  cup  of  coffee." 

"What?" 

"  Coffee." 

"  Brandy  toddy,  you  mean." 

"No,  coffee." 

"  Good  brandy  is  the  only  thing  fit  to  go  with 
oysters,"  said  the  first  speaker,  emphatically. 
|>  "  Bring  four  brandy  toddies,  waiter." 

"  No — no — not  for  me,"  interposed  Snyder. 
"  I  will  take  coffee.  I  don't  drink  brandy." 

"Oho, — now  I  see.  You  have  signed  the 
\  pledge.  Well, — bring  three  brandies,  waiter,  and 
one  coffee." 

Although  Snyder  had  persevered  in  his  resis- 
tance to  the  friends'  wish  to  have  him  take  brandy, 
he  was,  nevertheless,  sorely  tried.  There  was 


THE    CLUB    ROOM  151 

something  a  little  sarcastic  in  the  allusion  to  him 
as  a  pledged  man,  that  annoyed  him,  and  made 
him  feel  something  akin  to  shame.      The  other 
temperance  man,  had  less  firmness  than  Snyder. 
$          He  did  not  oppose  the  order  for  brandy  toddy, 
j         although  he  inwardly  determined  not  to  drink  it. 
Three  glasses  of  brandy  toddy,  and  a  cup  of 
>         coffee,  were  placed  upon  the  table.     Two  of  the 
company  put  their  glasses  to  their  lips  and  drank 
freely — the  third  let  his   glass  stand  untasted — 


while  Snyder,  feeling  a  little  mean,  (as  it  is  said), 
commenced  quietly  pouring  out  his  cup  of  coffee. 

"  What  !  Ain't  you  going  to  drink  with  us  ?" 
asked  the  individual  who  had  ordered  the  brandy, 
'.  addressing  the  reformed  man,  whose  glass  still  re- 
mained untouched. 

"  I  did  not  say  that  I  was  not,"  was  the  evasive 
reply. 

"  Then  drink,  man  !     What  are  you  afraid  of? 


These  are  election  times,  when  even  a  teetotaller 
ought  to  pledge  the  nation  in  good  brandy." 

Snyder  felt  that,  if  a  glass  of  liquor  were  then 

before  him,  and  he  were  thus  urged,  he  would 

£          hardly  be  able  to  resist.     He  was  not  surprised, 

$         though  deeply  pained,  to  see  the  tempted   man 

slowly  lift  his  glass,  and  sip  the  enticing  com- 

pound. 

"  Good,  isn't  it  ?"  said  one  encouragingly. 
"  I  have  tasted  brandy  before,"  was  the  brief 
reply. 

The  struggle  was  still  going  on,  vigorously,  in 

^          the  man's  mind.     When  he  raised  the  glass  to  his 

lips,  it  was  not  with  the  intention  of  drinking. 

?          He  merely  meant  to  taste  the  liquor,  and  thus  get 


152  THE    CLUB    ROOM. 

lid  of  the  importunities  of  his  false  friends.     But 
that  taste  had  helped  speedily  to  decide  the  contest. 
It  was  nectar  to  his  lips.      Nothing  before  had 
ever  been  so  sweet. 
"  Try  it  again." 

That  simple  exhortation  was  the  atom  that 
turned  the  scale.  He  did  try  it  again,  and  emp- 
tied half  the  tumbler  at  a  draught.  Will  the 
reader  be  at  all  surprised  to  learn  that  in  half  an 
hour  the  man  who  had  broken  his  pledge  was  in- 
toxicated ?  No — he  would  be  more  surprised  if 
such  were  not  the  result. 

The  moment  he  saw  the  eagerness  with  which 

c  the  reformed  man  drank  the  brandy,  Snyder  awoke 
as  from  a  dream,  and  shuddered  at  the  thought  of 
his  own  danger  and  providential  escape.  He 

j;          pushed  his  untasted  oysters  from  him,  and  rising 
from  the  table,  took  hold  of  his  friend  and  said — 
"  Come  away,  for  heaven's  sake  !     This  is  no 
place  for  either  you  or  I." 

£  But  it  was  too  late.     His  friend  resisted  the  in- 

terference angrily,  by  saying — 

"  If  you  are  content  with  your  coffee,  drink  it ; 

ij          but  don't  trouble  yourself  about  me.     I  know  what 

',;          I  am  about." 

Then  lifting  his  glass  again,  he  drained  it  to  the 
bottom.  Snytier  could  not  help  again  shuddering 
from  head  to  foot.  He  saw  that  his  friend  was  in 
a  vortex,  and  rapidly  whirling  towards  the  centre 
For  a  moment  he  stood  looking  at  him,  undecided 
how  to  act.  Then1  he  retired  slowly  from  the  box. 
On  re-ascending  tp  the  club  room,  he  met  two  re- 
formed men,  to  whom  he  related  what  had  just 
occurred.  They  held  a  brief  counsel,  and  then 


reformed  man  was  soonest  emptied. 

"  Who 's  afraid  ?  not  I,"  fell  from  his  lips,  as  he 
smacked  them  with  the  last  drop  of  his  second 
tumbler  lingering  pleasantly  on  his  nerves  of 
taste. 

If  he  was  not  afraid  to  drink,  his  tempters  soon 
became  reluctant  to  drink  with  him.  They  saw 
that  he  was  no  longer  a  sane  man ;  that  the  brandv 
had  taken  away  his  reason ;  that  he  was  rushing 
on  madly  to  intoxication. 

"  No,  no — no  more,"  one  of  them  said,  laying 
his  hand  upon  the  bell,  as  it  was  about  being  rung 
for  the  third  supply  of  brandy.  "We've  had 
enough." 


1 


THE   CLTJB   BOOM.  153 

went  down  for  the  purpose  of  getting  their  fellow 
member  away  from  his  dangerous  companions. 
But  they  received  only  abuse  for  their  unwelcome 

!>  interference,  both  from  his  drinking  friends  and 
himself.  Nothing,  they  soon  found,  could  be  done, 
except  to  wait  quietly  until  his  associates  separa- 
ted themselves  from  him,  which  they  knew  would 
be  the  case  so  soon  as  the  poor  fellow  became  in- 
toxicated. This  result  soon  occurred.  The  first 
glass  of  brandy  seemed  to  set  him  on  fire.  The 
appetite  that  had  remained  dormant  for  nearly 
three  years,  quickened  into  instant  life,  and  urged 
him  to  farther  indulgence,  with  an  irresistible 
longing  for  the  potations  once  so  sweet  to  his 

;>         thirsty  lips. 

"  Try  another  glass,  gents',"  he  said,  lifting,  as 
he  spoke,  the  little  table  bell  and  ringing  it. 

"  Three  more  brandies,"  was  gaily  said,  as  the 
waiter  responded  to  the  call. 

Brandy  was  again  supplied.     The  glass  of  the 


*.-u-»* 


154  THE  CLTJB  ROOM. 

"  Enough !  Two  glasses  enough  !  You  're  not  fit 
to  drink  with  an  old  bruiser  like  me.  Come! 
you  must  take  another  glass.  I  '11  bet  five  dollars 
that  I  can  put  you  all  under  the  table,  and  then 
walk  home  as  sober  as  a  judge.  Ha !  ha !  You 
don't  know  anything  about  drinking.  Here !  give 
me  that  bell." 

But  he  was  not  allowed  to  touch  it. 

"  Hallo,  waiter !"  he  cried  in  a  loud  voice, 
looking  out  from  the  box — "  three  more  brandy 
toddies,  and  make  'em  strong.  Don't  be  afraid  of 
your  liquors." 

Snyder,  and  his  temperance  friends,  heard  this 
loud,  distinct  call.  It  made  the  former  tremble, 
for  he  was  conscious  how  deeply  he  had  been 
'?  tempted,  and  how  nothing  less,  in  his  mind,  than  4 
a  miracle  could  have  saved  him,  had  a  glass  of 
brandy  been  by  his  side,  instead  of  the  coffee  he 
had  ordered.  !> 

!;  "  We  must  not  leave  him  here,"  he  said,  in  a         <; 

low  voice,  to  one  of  his  companions. 

"  No — no.    He  must  be  got  home  in  some  way." 

"  Poor  Mrs.  P !     It  will  break  her  heart.         ji 

They  have  been  so  happy,  and  have  been  doing  so 
Well  for  these  three  years.  The  thought  of  her 
makes  me  sick." 

"  It  is  my  last  visit  here." 

"  I  can  say  the  same,  from  the  bottom  of  my 
neart.     This  is  no  place  for  reformed  men      We 
never  secure  good  to  our  country  by  any  act  that         ;' 
endangers  our  standing  as  useful  citizens.     No — 
no.     If  Head  Quarters  must  be  in  a  tavern,  then  I 
never  go  there." 
3 


L 


J 


THE   CLUB   ROOM.  155 

"  With  all  my  heart  do  I  respond  to  that,"  was 
the  earnest  reply. 

For  a  full  hour,  his  friends  tried  to  get  the  man 
who  had  broken  his  pledge,  away  from  Leland's 
bar.  Then  he  became  so  noisy  that  the  landlord 
thrust  him  into  the  street.  Snyder  and  two  others 
followed,  and  lifting  him  from  the  pavement, 
where  he  had  fallen,  supported  him  home.  He 
was  nearly  insensible  when  he  arrived  there.  A 
light  was  glimmering  in  an  upper  room,  from 
whence  some  one  was  heard  descending,  to  open 
the  door  in  answer  to  their  knock.  It  wa«  the 
wife.  She  had  been  watching  by  the  bed  of  a 
*i  sick  child.  When  she  saw  her  husband  held  up 
between  two  men,  and  comprehended  fully  the 
meaning  of  what  was  before  her,  she  uttered  a  low, 
deep,  thrilling  cry,  and  fell  forward  senseless. 

That  cry,  that  heart-penetrating  cry,  how  it 
startled  every  nerve  in  the  body  and  soul  of 

William  Snyder !  Lifting  Mrs.  P in  his  arms, 

he  car.  :ed  her  up  to  the  room  from  which  she  had 
descended. 

"  Mother — mother,"  called  out  the  sick  child, 
feebly,  as  he  entered  with  his  senseless  burden, 
rising  up,  and  looking  around  in  alarm. 

Without  noticing  the  child,  he  laid  her  mother's 
body  upon  a  bed,  and  then  went  down  to  assist  in 
the  disposal  of  the  drunken  husband  and  father, 
who  was  fast  asleep. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  Mrs.  P showed 

signs  of  returning  life.  When  the  swoon  passed 
off,  it  left  her  only  half-conscious,  but  in  a  state  of 
painful  distress.  She  sobbed,  moaned,  cried,  and 
wrung  her  hands  incessantly,  without  appearing 

L  • 


150  THE    CLUB   ROOM. 

to  know  the  cause  of  her  agony.  The  friends 
of  her  husband,  who  could  so  fully  understand 
the  position  of  affairs,  were  distressed  beyond 

measure.     They  knew  how  sadly  P had,  in          ;> 

former  years,  abused  his  family,  and  they  knew 
that  he  would  abuse  it  again.     They  knew  what 
blasting  visions  had  instantly  risen  up  before  the          J; 
mind  of  his  wife,  when  she  saw  that  he  was  in- 
toxicated, and  they  did  not  wonder  at  their  effect. 

It  was  after  midnight,  when  Snyder  turned  his          ;> 
steps  homewards,  his  heart  lying  almost  as  heavily 
in  his  bosom,  as  if  made  of  lead.      One  of  the 
friends  who  had  assisted  to  bring  P home,  re- 
mained with  the  family  all  night,  so  that,  A*  hen          ^ 
the  infatuated  man  should  awake  from  his  drun- 
ken sleep,  he  could  be  with  him,  and  make  an 
effort  to  save  him  from  the  destruction  into  which          £ 
he  would  naturally  be  inclined  to  rush. 

Let  us  now  return  to  Mrs.  Snyder.     The  reader 
has  sten,  that  on  this  night,  her  mind   suffered 
more  than  usual  disturbance.     She  could  not,  in 
the  absence  of  her  husband,  remain  at  h.?r  accus- 
tomed employment.     Until  ten  o'clock,  her  time          •; 
was  passed,  in  wandering   about   like  a  restless 
spirit,  or  in  vain  attempts  to  compel  herself  to         !> 
work.     She  had  hoped  that  William  would  return 
before  that  hour,  though  she  did  not  fully  expect          j> 
him.     But,  after  that  period,  the  anxiety  became 
so  great,  that  she  felt  like  one  about  •toj.je  suffoca- 
ted.    It  seemed  that  she  were  suffering  nr  a  t^rri 
ble  nightmare.     In  vain  did  she  go  to  the*  door          \ 
and  look  eagerly  down  the  street.     In  vain  did  she 
listen  for  the  sound  of  his  footsteps — no  other 
could  deceive  her  quick  ear.      Thus  hour  after 




THE   CLUB   ROOM.  157  J 

>  hour  passed — eleven — twelve  o'clock  came..  The 
poor  wife  of  the  reformed  man  was  in  an  agany 
of  fear  and  suspense.  The  prolonged  absence  of 
her  husband,  knowing  as  she  did,  that  he  had  gone 
voluntarily  into  the  way  of  temptation,  was  almost 
like  proof  positive  that  he  had  been  betrayed  to 
certain  ruin.  Images  that  had  before  been  dis- 
pelled, ere  they  came  forth  into  full  form,  now 
grouped  themselves  in  her  excited  imagination 
with  paralyzing  distinctness.  She  saw  herself 
again  a  drunkard's  wife — a  drunkard's  slave — and 
her  children  again  in  rags,  defenceless,  and 
abused. 

"  Oh,  it  will  kill  me !  It  will  kill  me  !"  she 
said,  risinsr  with  a  shudder,  and  turning  her  body 
away,  as  if  by  that  motion,  to  turn  from  the  image 
in  her  mind. 

Walking  the  floor,  and  wringing  her  hands  did 
j;          little  towards  quieting  her  internal  anguish. 

Half  an  hour  more  went  by,  and  still  Snyder 
was  away.     His  wife  had  ceased  to  manifest  her 
distress  by  walking  the  floor,  or  by  any  strong  ex- 
£          ternal  signs.      Hope  had  well  nigh  become  ex  |> 

tinguished  in  her  bosom.  She  was  now  seated  by 
her  work  table,  her  face  buried  in  her  arms,  and 
her  thoughts  turned  inward,  eating  into  the  sub- 
stance of  her  mind. 

When  Snyder  left  the  dwelling  of  the  poor, 
fallen  wretch,  who  could  not  stand  up  in  tempta- 
tion, he  found  that  it  was  nearly  one  o'clock.  A 
thought  of  his  wife  made  him  bound  forward  with 
a  quick  step.  On  reaching  his  house,  he  entered 
quietly,  locked  the  door  after  him,  and  went  into 
their  little  breakfast  room.  Here  he  found  Anna 
14 


^  15S  THE    CLUB   ROOM. 

sitting  as  the  reader  has  last  seen  her,  perfectly 
motionless.     She  had  heard  her  husband  enter ; 
but  she  dared  not  look  up.     For  a  moment  or  two         ^ 
there  was  a  deep  silence.     Then  Snyder,  laying 
his  hand  gently  upon  her,  said,  in  a  voice  of  ten-         ;> 
!;          derness,  ^ 

"  Anna,  dear  ?" 

With  a  sudden  spring  did  the  almost  paralyzed 
wife  rise  to  her  feet,  and  throw  herself  upon  the 
bosom  of  her  husband. 

"  It  is  all  well,  Anna.     Do  not  fear  me,"  mur- 
mured Snyder,   who  understood   what    all  thi» 
meant.     "  I  should  not  have  staid  away  so  long,         j| 
had  I  not  been  anxiously  seeking  to  get  away  from         ^ 
the  accursed  place  where  our  club  meets,  poor 

P ,  who  has,  alas !  fallen  in  the  snare  set  for 

our  unwary  feet.     Never — never  again  will  I 
cross  the  door  stone  of  that  house !"  <; 

"  Thank  God !  for  that  resolution,"  was  the 
wife's  response,  yielding  to  a  gush  of  tears. 

We  need  say  no  mor,e  of  William  Snyder,  and          ^ 
Jj          his  wife.     They  are  still  happy ;  and  will,  we  are 

sure,  remain  so.     Poor  P never  awoke  from 

his  drunken  sleep.      That  last  act,   sealed  big 
earthly  state. 


MAETYKWIFE.  | 

BY  T.   S.  ARTHUR 
" 


THE  MARTYR  WIFE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

S 

A  FAIR-HAIRED  girl,  with  a  pure,  bright  com- 
plexion, and  eyes  of  the  softest  blue,  sat  partly 
shading  her  face  with  her  hand  as  she  bent  over 
a  volume,  deeply  absorbed  in  its  contents.  It 
was  evening,  and  as  she  sat  near  the  light,  it 
fell  strongly  upon  her.  With  her  dress  of  vir- 
gin white,  and  sunny  countenance,  all  reflecting 
vividly  the  rays  that  streamed  forth  from  a  gas 
lamp,  she  looked  like  an  image  of  innocence — 
but  too  delicate  and  fragile  for  a  world  of  such 
severe  realities  as  this. 

More  in  the  shadow  of  the  room,  yet  still  in 
clear  light,  sat  the  father  and  mother  of  the 
young  lady.  Their  eyes  were  upon  her,  and 
moistened  from  feelings  of  exceeding  tender- 
ness, mingled  with  the  consciousness  that  this, 
*.heir  beloved  one,  could  not  always  thus  be 
perfectly  sheltered  from  the  wind  and  the  tem- 
pest— that  she  was  a  child  of  earth,  although, 
seemingly,  untainted  by  an  earthly  stain,  or  dis- 
turbed by  a  thought  of  evil. 

"  Florence,  dear,"  the  father  said,  after  the 


4  THE   MARTYR   WIFE. 

passage  of  nearly  an  hour,  during  which  he 
had  been  at  times  silent  and  thoughtful,  and  at 
times  interested  in  some  remarks  either  of  his 
own  or  of  the  mother  of  his  child  ;  "  Florence, 
dear,  you  have  enjoyed  your  book  a  good  while 
now — won't  you  play  and  sing  for  me  a  little  .'" 
"  Certainly  I  will." 

And  the  fair  girl  closed  her  book,  and  looked 
up  with  a  sweet  smile  that  was  full  of  tender- 
ness and  affection.  She  was,  indeed,  exquisitely 
lovely — and  with  this  loveliness  was  blend- 
ed something  that  did  not  seem  of  the  earth, 
earthy.  Her  brow  was  high  and  white,  her 
eyes  soft,  yet  brilliant  and  full  of  expression. 
Her  cheek,  upon  which  rested  a  delicate  bloom, 
that  seemed  as  if  it  would  fade  every  moment, 
was  gently  rounded  into  a  healthy  fullness,  and 
yet  it  seemed  as  if  it  could  not  be  flesh  and 

£  blood  that  lay  concealed  beneath  its  pure  trans- 
parent skin.  A  mouth  formed  to  convey,  in 
its  rapid,  yet  delicate  variations  of  expression, 
all  the  good  and  affectionate  impulses  of  her 
mind,  gave  a  living  and  intelligent  grace  to  her 
whole  countenance.  And  the  beauty  of  all 

•;  these  was  heightened  by  the  luxuriant  tresses 
that  fell  in  sunny  ringlets  about  her  neck  and 
face,  gracefully  swaying  and  catching  a  thou- 
sand changing  reflections  of  light,  as  her  head 
partook  of  the  gentle  motions  of  her  body. 
No  wonder  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Allison  were 

<;  fond  of  their  child.  No  wonder  that  they  loved 
her  with  unspeakable  tenderness.  For  her 


THE    MARTYR   "WIFE.  5 

';  > 

body  but  fitly  corresponded  with  the  loveliness 
of  her  mind. 

Rising  from  her  place  at  the  centre-table, 
where  she  had  been  reading,  Florence  took  up 
a  guitar,  and  after  passing  her  fingers  for  a 
few  moments  over  the  chords  with  practised 
touches,  commenced  warbling,  in  a  low,  thrilling 
voice,  a  sweet  ballad  of  the  olden  time.  Beau- 
tifully did  her  voice  blend  with  the  tones  of  the 
instrument,  giving  to  them  a  richness  and  ex- 
quisiteness  of  expression  not  legitimately  their 
own.  Thus  did  she  sing  song  after  song,  until, 
wearied,  she  laid  aside  her  guitar,  with  the 
silently  uttered  blessings  of  her  -parents  upon 
her  head. 

Florence  Allison  was  just  eighteen — that  ten- 
der age  at  which  we  so  often  see  the  slender 
girl  suddenly  assuming  the  rounded  contour 
and  quiet  demeanor  of  the  woman.  That  age 
so  beset  with  unknown  dangers.  That  age, 
when  the  heart,  swelling  with  "  tenderness  sup- 
pressed," is  ready  to  pour  out  its  treasures  at 
the  feet  of  him  whose  touch  shall  first  unseal 
the  hidden  waters — pure  as  crystal,  and  sweet 
as  virgin  innocence  itself. 

"  I  tremble  when  I  think  of  our  dear  child," 
Mr.  Allison  said,  after  Florence  had  left  them 
for  the  evening,  and  retired  to  her  chamber. 

This  is  too  sad  a  world,  and  the  way  through 


it  is  too  rough  for  one  like  her." 

"  Indeed  it  is,"  returned  the  mother.     "  She 
is  far   too  beautiful  not   to  attract  admirers. 
1* 


/  6  THE   &&KTYR.   WIFE. 

But  who  is  worthy  to  v^ke  her  hand  ?     I 

}        of  none." 

^  "  Nor  I.     But  we  are  kn^wn  to  be  rich,  and 

our  daughter's  hand  will  be  assuredly  sought, 
not  from  a  pure  desire  to  possess  that  hand,  but 
the  wealth  *hat  will  go  with  it.  Pray  Heaven, 
that  no  base  wretch,  with  such  motives,  may 

|  succeed  in  winning  her  heart !  If  so,  our  gray 
hairs  will  assuredly  go  down  in  sorrow  to  the 
grave — sorrow  for  the  anguish,  and  perchance 
early  death,  of  a  broken-hearted  child.  We 
must  watch  over  her  with  tenfold  greater  vigi- 
lance than  we  have  hitherto  exercised." 

Mr.  Allison  spoke  with  earnestness  and  emo- 
tion. 

"  Still,  let  us  hope  for  the  best.     Surely,  one 

so   innocent  as   she,  will  not  be   suffered    to 

become  the  victim  of  a  heartless  money-seeker." 

"  Others,  as  innocent  and  lovely,  have  not 

escaped  that  sorrowful  condition,"  replied  Mrs. 

$  Allison,  gloomily.  "  I  have  sometimes  wished 
that  she  were  a  plainer  girl." 


Thus  conferred  the  parents,  while  the  child 


was  sleeping  sweetly  upon  her  pillow,  her  rnind 
filled  with  pleasant  dreams  of  one  who  had 
claimed  many  hours  of  her  waking  thoughts 
through  the  previous  day. 

\  As  she  lay  thus,  gently  wrapped  in  slumber, 

a  young  man,  in  a  distant  part  of  the  city,  sat 
writing  a  letter,  a  portion  of  which  ran  thus  ? 

'  You  say,  Harry,  that  old  Gripe  threatens 


THE   MARTYR    WIFE. 


to  send  on  his  account  and  sue  me  here.  For 
Heaven's  sake  choke  him  off  a  little  while 
longer !  Trump  up  any  tale,  I  don't  care  what. 
Say  I  am  not  here,  if  that  will  do.  That  I  left 
for  New  Orleans  on  the  first  of  the  month. 
Anything  at  all  to  stave  the  old  rascal  off, 
until — Ah !  '  until  what  ?'  you  will  ask. 

"  Harry,  I  have  met  an  angel  here !  And 
if  I  'm  not  mistaken,  she  is  going  to  lift  me  out 
of  all  my  difficulties — for,  besides  being  an 
angel,  her  old  father  is  as  rich  as  a  Jew.  Can 
I  get  her  ?  you  will  ask.  Verily,  that  is  the 
question  !  But,  I  'm  at  least  determined  to  have 
the  merit  of  trying,  even  if  I  don't  succeed. 
She  is  just  eighteen,  innocent  as  a  lamb,  and 
with  a  heart  just  ready  to  lavish  its  treasures 
of  love  upon  the  first  one  who  comes  along. 
I  must  be  that  fortunate  one,  if  possible.  With 
such  an  Eve  by  my  side,  the  whole  world 
would  be  a  Paradise — especially,  as  by  the 
power  of  an  enchanter,  she  could  subdue  all 
the  wild  beasts  of  duns,  who  now  beset  my 
path,  and  send  them  off  to  their  own  waste, 
howling  wilderness.  I  could  love  her,  Harry. 
Yea — I  do  love  her  now,  with  the  fervor  of  an 
Orpheus.  And  I  can  and  will  make  her  happy, 
if  I  can  get  her.  If  I  can  only  win  her,  I  will 
wear  her  proudly. 

"  Last  night  I  met  her  for  the  third  time,  and 
unaccompanied  by  her  parents,  who  watch  over 
her  as  vigilantly  as  did  the  dragon  of  old  over 
the  golden  apples  in  the  garden  of  the  Hesperi- 


8  THE   MARTYB    WIFE. 

des.     And  well  they  may,  for  she  is  a  prize  for 
which  many  will  contend — and  some  far  less 

'<}  worthy  than  your  friend.  I  was  not  long  in 
getting  by  her  side,  and  when  once  there,  you 

£  may  be  certain  that  I  put  on  my  very  best 
clothes.  I  was  really  eloquent,  at  times,  in 
my  conversation — entirely  surpassing  myself — 
and  you  know  that,  at  any  time,  I  have  a 

f,  pretty  smooth  tongue  in  my  head.  I  am  in  a 
state  of  wonder  now,  when  I  think  how  I 

£  talked  to  her.  How  ideas  flowed  into  my  mind, 
just  as  I  wanted  them,  and  formed  themselves 
on  my  tongue  into  most  eloquent  sentences. 
The  fates  were  doubtless  in  my  favor.  She 

;!        was  taken  with  me,  I  could  see  plainly  enough. 
"  If  I  can  once  get  her,  and  thus  form  an 
alliance  with  the  Allisons,  I   shan't  care  the          '; 

!;        snap  of  my  finger  for  my  old  man.     However, 

j;  in  that  event  he  will  at  once  have  a  better  opi- 
nion of  me.  Strange,  how  a  little  alteration  in 

\  external  circumstances,  alters  the  opinion  of 
one's  real  quality  in  some  people's  minds ! 

"Write  me  immediately,  and  tell  me  what 
you  have  made  out  of  that  Shylock,  Gripe. 
More  anon." 

The  young  man  who  penned  this  character- 
istic epistle,  was  named  George  Campbell,  the 
son  of  a  high-minded,  honorable  citizen  of  a 
Southern  State,  well  known  for  his  virtues,  and 
the  able  manner  in  which  he  had  filled  several 
c;  public  stations  of  responsibility  and  usefulness. 


THE    MARTYR    WIFE.  V  ^ 

Thrown  among  companions  of  loose  habits  and 
looser  principles  while  at  College,  the  son  had 
become  so  sadly  corrupted,  and  so  confirmed 
in  idle  and  vicious  courses,  that  his  father  lost 
nearly  all  control  over  him.  For  some  time  he 
had  continued  to  supply  him  with  money  ;  but 
as  this  only  gave  him  the  power  of  free  indul- 
gence in  evil  courses,  Mr.  Campbell  was  finally 
compelled  to  cut  him  off  with  but  a  small  an- 
nual stipend.  His  wants  being  far  greater  than  <; 
his  income,  debts  rapidly  accumulated  on  his  s 
hands,  and  subjected  him  to  the  worst  of  all 
annoyances,  duns  for  money  when  the  pockets 
are  empty.  This  drove  him  to  the  necessity  of 
doing  something  by  which  to  raise  money.  For 
a  time,  he  connected  himself  with  a  company 
of  men  trading  from  the  Middle  to  the  South- 
ern States  in  slaves.  In  this  way  he  obtained 
a  few  hundred  dollars  that  was  speedily  dis- 
sipated, part  in  gay  living,  and  part  at  the 
gaming-table,  to  which  he  resorted  in  the  hope 
of  bettering  his  fortunes.  There  he  became 
linked  in  with  a  party  of  gamblers,  and  acted 
for  some  time  in  the  execrable  capacity  of  a 
stool-pigeon,  by  which  he  realized  handsome 
profits.  In  this,  however,  there  was  something 
so  detestably  false-hearted  and  base,  that  the 
small  portion  of  unextinguished  principles  re-  <! 
maining  in  him,  rebelled,  and  he  broke  himself 
loose  from  the  vile  association. 

After  this,  with  a  few  hundred  dollars  in  his 
pocket,  he  came  to  P ,  the  residence  of  Mr. 


10  THE   MARTYR   WIFE. 

Allison.  Here  he  had  lived  under  more  restraint 
than  was  habitual  to  him,  and,  on  the  strength 
of  his  father's  good  name,  mixed  prettv 
freely  in  good  society.  In  doing  so,  he  came 
in  contact,  as  has  been  seen,  with  Florence,  and 
determined,  if  possible,  to  secure  her  hand. 

In  the  incipiency  of  this  determination,  al- 
though its  prompting  motive  was  the  base  de- 
sire of  forming  a  rich  connection,  there  came 
into  activity  some  of  the  better  feelings  of  his 
nature.  About  Florence,  there  was  something 
that  awoke  purer  sentiments  and  better  resolu- 
tions than  he  had  experienced  for  a  long  time. 


And  yet,  the  highest  emotion  he  was  capable 
j;  of  feeling,  was  far  too  selfish  and  gross,  to  form 
anything  like  a  true  conjoining  principle  be- 
tween him  and  such  a  being  as  Florence  Allison. 
She  might,  indeed,  love  that  with  which  her 
fond  imagination  invested  him — but  he  could 
never  make  her  truly  happy. 

I 


\  '  1 

CHAPTER  II. 

THREE  weeks  from  the  time  the  letter  was 
written,  an  extract  of  which  is  contained  in  the 
preceding  chapter,  another  epistle  was  penned, 
of  which  the  following  is  a  portion  : 


THE   MARTYR   WIFE.  11 

"  I  declare,  Harry,  I  am  half  inclined  even 
now  to  give  up  the  effort.  I  can  win  her, — of 
that  I  am  satisfied.  Indeed,  I  have  her  heart 
now,  in  spite  of  her  father,  whose  dragon-like 
watchfulness  has  not  prevented  my  feasting  my 
eyes  on  his  golden  fruit.  Then  why  give  up  ? 
You  will  ask.  For  the  very  strange  reason,  so 
you  will  say,  that  she  is  too  good  for  me.  I 
never  met  with  so  pure  a  being — and  she  is  as 
wise  as  she  is  pure. 

"  I  can  never  make  her  happy.  That  is  clear. 
And  knowing  this,  will  it  not  be  acting  a  cruel 
part,  Harry,  for  me  to  entail  upon  her  a  life- 
time of  misery  ?  I  think  so.  And  yet,  is  it 
not  possible,  that  a  union  with  her  may  elevate 
and  make  me  a  wiser  and  a  better  man  ?  Some- 
times I  think  so. 

"Old  Gripe  you  say  is  savage  against  me. 
Confound  him !  1  wish  he  were  dead.  The  !; 
fact  is,  I  must  push  my  fortunes  with  Florence 
as  my  only  chance.  There  are  several  other 
girls  here  of  whom  a  handsome  fellow  like  me, 
with  a  smooth  tongue  in  his  head,  might  easily 
get  the  blind  side,  but  I  don't  fancy  them.  It 's 
one  thing  to  get  a  wife  with  money,  and  another 
thing  to  get  one  with  whom  you  can  bear  to 
pass  a  whole  lifetime.  I  wish  Florence  had  a 
little  more  spice  in  her  composition— a  little  of 
the  devil  in  her  eye  ;  then  we  might  jog  along, 
jarring  a  little  occasionally,  and  so  get  on 
comfortably.  When  I  marry,  it  ought  to  be  a 
woman  of  some  considerable  spirit  and  hide- 


THE  MARTYR  WIFE. 


\j-<u-*s*^ 


pendence.  One  who  could  bear  a  little  neglect 
and  wildness  on  my  part  occasionally,  and  even 
pull  my  ears,  when  in  the  humor.  But  Flor 
ence  Allison  is  not  of  that  stamp.  If  I  were 
to  neglect  her,  she  would  rebuke  me  only  by  a 
sad  quiet  look  of  distress,  and  a  pale  cheek. 
Perhaps  I  might  even  surprise  her  in  tears. 
But  she  would  never  remonstrate,  never  chide 
— and  if  I  continued  my  neglect,  would,  like  a 
flower  shut  out  from  the  light,  wither,  droop, 
and  die.  I  shouldn't  like  that.  I  don't  want 
such  a  sin  upon  my  conscience.  And  yet,  what 
am  I  to  do?  Here  is  a  flower  in  my  path, 
waiting  for  my  hand.  Why  not  pluck  it  and 
wear  it  upon  my  bosom  ?  Advise  me,  Harry." 


While  George  Campbell  was  writing  this 
letter,  Florence  was  holding  converse  with  a 
very  dear  young  friend,  between  whom  and  her- 
self existed  a  congeniality  of  feeling  and  sen- 
timent. They  had,  on  the  evening  before, 
attended  the  wedding  of  one  of  their  young 
companions. 

"  Mary  looked  sweeter  than  I  ever  saw  her," 
remarked  the  friend. 

"  But  did  you  not  think  there  was  an  expres- 
sion  of  sadness  on  her  face  ?  A  withdrawal  of 
external  sight  from  surrounding  objects,  and  a 
looking  inward.  It  seemed  so  to  me.  And  no 
wonder.  Marriage  is  a  solemn  thing,  and  the 
marriage  relation  mysterious  and  holy.  Who 


THE  MARTYR  WIFE.  13 

can  enter  into  it  without  serious  thoughts? 
Surely  I  could  not." 

"  But  I  see  no  reason,"  returned  the  friend, 
"  for  sadness  They  who  marry,  love  each 
other  above  everything  in  the  world,  and  for 
such  to  be  joined  together,  never  to  be  separa- 
ted during  life,  it  seems  to  me  must  be  of  all 
things  most  delightful." 

"  And  so  it  doubtless  is,"  said  Florence,  while 
her  voice  slightly  trembled,  and  her  eye  felt 
the  gathering  moisture.  "  But,  in  that  union, 
as  in  death  to  the  good  man  who  knows  that 
he  is  going  to  his  reward  of  eternal  blessed- 
ness, there  is  something  that  causes  the  heart 
to  flutter  and  shrink  back.  It  is  the  passage 
of  a  bourne  from  which  no  traveller  returns  to 
give  intelligence  that  can  be  comprehended  by 
the  virgin  pilgrim  to  the  same  goal.  Who, 
then,  can  stand  just  on  the  verge  of  that  pas- 
sage— that  narrow  space  of  time — and  not  feel 
her  heart  sink  in  her  bosom?  Certainly  I 
could  not." 

"And  yet,  the  wife's  position  is  a  higher  and 
happier  one  than  the  maiden's." 

"  It  is  so,  truly — far  higher  and  holier — for 
only  as  a  wife  can  a  woman  fill  her  true  place 
in  the  world.  Still,  I  have  sometimes  thought 
that  as  a  maiden  I  should  like  to  live  and  die. 
Would  not  you  ?" 

"  Perhaps  so,"  was  the  half-evasive  reply, 
while  her  heart  gave  a  quicker  throb  at  the 
thought  of  George  Campbell. 

2 


14  THE   MARTYB.    WIFE. 

A  month  more  elapsed,  when  Campbell 
called,  formally,  upon  Mr.  Allison,  and  asked 
an  interview  with  him. 

"  You  know  my  father  ?"  began  the  young 
man,  with  an  embarrassed  air. 

"By  reputation,  I  do.  I  never  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  him." 

Then  followed  a  silence.  i 


"  Hem !     You  know  his  standing  in  society, 


I  presume?" 

"  O,  yes.  Very  well.  No  man  stands  higher 
than  he." 

Then  succeeded  another  silence,  quite  embar- 
rassing to  the  young  Campbell. 

"  Hem !  Presuming  upon  my  connections,  I 
make  bold  to  approach  you  upon  a  subject  that 
deeply  interests  us  both." 

"  Indeed,  sir  !     And  what  is  that  ?"  asked 


Mr.  Allison  quickly. 

"  I  find  myself  becoming  attached  to  your 
daughter,  sir." 

"  My  daughter  !  Impossible !  When  did 
you  meet  with  my  daughter  ?  I  have  never 
seen  you  at  my  house." 

"  That  is  true,  sir.  But  I  have  met  your 
daughter  in  company,  several  times  of  late,  and 
have  only  seen  her  to  admire,  and  then  to 
love  her.  As  an  honorable  man,  I  felt  it  my 
duty  to  seek  your  permission  to  address  her, 
before  intruding  myself  into  your  family." 

"  I  cannot  give  you  that  permission,  sir.  I 
know  nothing  of  your  disposition  or  habits. 


THE  MARTYR  WIFE.  15 

Nothing  o    your  ability  to  make  my  daughter 
happy.B 

"  Of  these  you  cannot,  of  course,  judge  at 
once.  But,  as  there  exists  the  means  of  ascer- 
taining what  it  is  so  requisite  that  you  should 
know,  I  hope  that  your  present  ignorance  of 
my  character  will  not  be  the  means  of  entirely 
excluding  me  from  the  society  of  Miss  Allison. 
Let  me  at  least  visit  her,  while  you  make  every 

?  •  •  •  OJ5  i 

<         necessary  inquiry  concerning  me  i  s' 

"  No,  sir.  I  cannot  do  that.  It  would  not 
be  the  course  of  a  prudent  parent.  I  know 
that  it  is  in  the  power  of  the  bad,  as  well  as 
the  good,  to  win  the  affections  of  innocence 
— to  bind  the  pure  and  lovely  to  them  by 
chords  that  no  human  power  can  rend  asunder. 
You  may  be,  in  every  way,  worthy  the  hand 
of  my  child — which  hand,  however,  I  shall  not 
give  to  any  one  for  at  least  two  years  to  come — 
but  I  do  not  know  it." 

"  Will  you  not  make  inquiries  ?  Will  you 
not  take  the  requisite  steps  to  satisfy  yourself?"  \ 

"  Most  assuredly  I  will.  But  of  one  thing 
let  me  caution  you,  Mr.  Campbell,  and  that  is, 
not  to  seek,  in  any  way,  to  win  the  regard  of 
Florence,  should  you  be  thrown  accidentally 
in  her  company.  If  you  do  so,  I  shall  at  once 
consider  you  to  be  void  of  honor,  and  shall 
turn,  ever  after,  a  deaf  ear  to  all  your  over-  > 
tures." 

"  You  may  depend   upon  me,"  the  young 


16  THE   MARTYR   WIFE. 

{{       man  said.     "  But  how  long   a  time   do   you 
t       wish?" 

"  I  cannot  now  tell.     But  a  month  or  two 
at  the  least.     I  must  be  fully  satisfied  before 
jl       I  will  give  my  consent  for  you  to  approach  my 
child/ 

A  letter  from  Campbell  to  his  friend,  written 

j;       on  the  same  day  that  this  interview  took  place, 

will  show  his  views  and  feelings  in  relation  to 

£        the  matter. 

Ij  !' 

•'  Well,  Harry,  I  have  crossed  the  Rubicon," 
so  began  the  letter ;  "  to-day  I  have  seen  old 

•i  Allison,  and  formally  asked  permission  to 
address  his  daughter.  But  the  way  he  threw 

<;  cold  water  on  it  was  curious.  He  would  not 
consent  that  I  should  put  my  foot  inside  of  his 

j;  door,  until  he  had  made  inquiries  about  my 
character,  &c.,  which  I  should  think  he  de- 

§  signs  shall  be  thorough  and  extensive,  for  he 
requires  at  least  from  one  to  two  months.  I 
am  not,  in  the  meantime,  to  attempt  to  make 
any  impression  upon  Florence,  if  I  should  acci- 
dentally be  thrown  into  her  company,  under  the 
penalty  of  an  utter  rejection  of  my  suit.  So 
now  you  see  how  the  land  lies.  And  then,  he 
talks  about  not  letting  her  marry  for  two  years 
to  come.  Preposterous  !  As  to  not  trying  to 
make  an  impression  on  her  if  I  fall  in  with  her, 
that  is  my  business.  Most  certainly  I  shall 
make  myself  as  interesting  to  her  as  possible. 
Would'nt  I  be  a  fool  not  to  do  so,  especially  as 


THE   MARTYR    WIFE.  17 

there  are  ten  changes  against,  to  one  in  my 
favor,  in  the  event  of  his  making  any  very 
minute  investigations  into  my  character.  If  he 
should  decide  unfavorably,  as  I  fear  he  will,  I 
have  no  idea  of  giving  up  the  game.  The  fact 
is,  I  have  never  seen  a  woman  who  made  so 
deep  an  impression  on  me,  as  Miss  Allison  has 
done.  She  is  loveliness  and  innocence  embodied. 
The  music  of  her  voice,  the  expression  of  her 
countenance,  linger  with  rne  for  days  after  I 
have  met  her.  Her  image  is  in  every  dream. 
Surely,  the  presence  of  such  a  one,  ever  by  my 
side,  would  change  my  whole  character.  I  have 

jl  been  a  wild  boy  in  my  time,  it  is  true.  But 
this  is,  I  feel,  the  turning  point  in  my  life. 

"  I  have  written  to  my  father,  and  stated  the 
whole  matter  to  him  freely.  I  have  affected  a 
good  deal  of  penitence,  and  promised  to  come 
right  home  with  my  wife,  and  be  all  that  he 
can  ask  me  to  be.  This  will,  of  course,  excite 
new  hopes  in  his  mind,  and  cause  him  to  put  as 

'/  good  a  face  on  the  matter  as  possible  when  he 
replies  to  Mr.  Allison,  who  will,  no  doubt, 
write  to  him  in  regard  to  me. 

"  And  so,  old  Gripe  really  took  the  bait,  and 

;>  believes  that  I  am  in  New  Orleans.  Ha  !  ha  ! 
Keep  him  on  that  scent,  if  you  please,  as  stea- 
dily as  possible,  while  I  lie  low  in  this  quarter, 
and  push  my  fortunes  with  Florence  Allison. 
All  is  well  that  ends  well. — Adio." 


j 


Disregarding 
2* 

his 

pledge  to 

Mr. 

Allison, 

coldly,  as  the  suitor  came  into  his  presence. 


18  THE   MAETYR    WIFE. 

5  t 

young  Campbell  sought  every  opportunity  that 
presented,  to  insinuate  himself  into  the  good 
opinion  of  Florence.  It  so  happened  that  he 
\vas  a  regular  visitor  in  a  family  where  Flo- 
rence was  intimate.  Thence  the  maiden,  who 
had  already  begun  to  feel  the  power  of  the 
charmer,  went  often,  drawn  by  an  inclination, 
the  reason  of  which  was  unacknowledged  by 
herself — and  here  she  met  Campbell,  unknown 
to  her  parents,  though  not  clandestinely,  for 
she  had  no  idea  of  the  young  man's  proposal  to 
her  father,  nor  that  he  even  thought  of  her,  at 
least  half  a  dozen  times  during  the  two  months 
her  father  required  for  prosecuting  his  inquiries. 
These  meetings  were  not  without  a  decided 
effect.  Her  young  heart  was  won. 

Skilled  in  the  unspoken  language  of  the  heart, 
Campbell  saw  at  every  step  the  progress  he 
!;  was  making,  and  knew  the  precise  moment 
when  he  might  feel  certain  of  his  prize. 

When  the  time  which  was  thought  necessary 
by  Mr.  Allison,  for  the  prosecution  of  his  in- 
quiries, had  expired,  Campbell  waited  upon 
him  again,  formally. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 


"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Allison,"  returned 
Campbell,  bowing  politely,  and  permitting  his 
features  to  assume  a  bland  smile. 

"  Take  a  chair,  sir." 

Mr.  Campbell  seated  himself,  and  then  said, 
with  affected  unconcern : 


THE    MARTYR    WIFE.  19 

"  Well,  sir,  I  suppose  you  have  satisfied  your- 
self in  regard  to  me." 

"  I  have.  And  what  is  more,  have  heard 
nothing  that  prepossesses  me  in  your  favor,  as 
a  man  suitable  for  my  daughter  to  marry.  I 
find  that  your  habits  have  been  irregular,  and 
your  associates  of  the  worst  kind." 

"  But  that  is  past,  Mr.  Allison.  I  am  wil- 
ling to  acknowledge  that  while  young  I  was 
imprudent.  But  I  trust  I  am  a  different  man 
now." 

"  No  man  can  pass  through  the  flames  with- 
out a  smell  of  fire  remaining  on  him,  Mr. 
Campbell.  A  moral  character  once  tainted, 
like  a  polluted  stream,  takes  a  long  time  to  run 
clear  again.  I  could  not  trust  my  child  with 
one  who  had  ever  thought  lightly  of  virtue." 

"  Have  you  written  to  my  father,  Mr.  Alli- 
son?" 

"  I  have." 

"  And  has  he  replied  to  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.     Here  is  his  letter." 

And  Mr.  Allison  handed  the  young  man  his 
father's  communication.  It  ran  thus: 

"  You  place  me,  sir,  in  a  most  painfully  try- 
ing position ;  one  in  which  duty  and  affection 
come  strongly  into  conflict.  You  say  that  my 
boy  has  asked  the  hand  of  your  only  daughter, 
who  is  to  you  as  the  apple  of  your  eye — whose 
happiness  you  would  sacrifice  anything  in  your 
power  to  maintain.  You  describe  her  as  being 
fragile  as  a  blossom ;  one  whose  affections, 


20  THE   MARTYR    WIFE 

when  once  called  out,  would  be  so  intense  and 
devoted,  that  should  they  not  be  met  by  one 
who  could  truly  appreciate  and  truly  love  her, 
would,  '  like  a  worm  in  the  bud,'  eat  away  at 
her  heart,  and  destroy  her.  Were  she  my 
daughter,  sir,  and  your  son  were  to  ask  her  of 
my  hands,  and  I  knew  him  to  be  such  a  one  as 
my  erring  boy,  I  should  be  compelled  to  reject 
his  suit.  George  has  written  to  me  freely  of 
your  daughter ;  and  has  described  her  in  such 
terms  as  has  made  us  all  love  her,  and  ear- 
nestly desire  that  she  might  make  one  of  our 
family.  He  has,  in  doing  so,  promised  much 
that  is  good  in  regard  to  the  future,  and  I  trust 
that  his  resolutions  are  sincere.  I  doubt  not 
but  that  such  a  lovely  being  to  stimulate  him 
to  noble  ends,  would  modify  his  future  life  and 
perhaps  save  him.  But,  sir,  the  experiment 
would  be  dangerous  to  your  child.  Truth  re- 
quires me  to  say  this,  while  my  heart  yearns 
over  my  son  and  leaps  at  the  thought  of  the 
alliance  proposed  as  the  means  of  reclaiming 
him." 

George  Campbell  read  this  letter  over  twice, 
and   then   dashed  a   tear   from  his  eye,  as  he 


returned  it  to  Mr.  Allison. 


"  Can  you  blame  me,  after  that,  for  declin- 
ing your  proposal?"  said  the  father  of  Florence, 
looking  the  young  man  steadily  in  the  face. 

"  Perhaps  not.  But  may  I  not  hope  to  find 
favor  in  your  eyes,  if  1  return  to  my  father,  sub- 
mit ipyself  to  him,  and  change  thoroughly  my 


THE   MARTYR   WIFE.  21 

course  of  life  ?    I  find  myself  deeply,  and,  I 


know,  tenderly  attached  to  your  daughter." 

Campbell  spoke  seriously  ;  for  he  was  in 
earnest. 

"  No,  sir,"  was  the  prompt  reply.  "  If  the 
desire  to  possess  the  hand  of  Florence  be  a  mo- 
tive strong  enough  now  to  cause  you  to  give  up  !; 
a  dissipated  and  vicious  course  of  life  —  for  such 
I  find  you  have  led  —  when  you  grow  tired  of 
her,  as  a  man  of  your  character  must  grow  tired 
of  everything  after  a  time,  a  desire  to  return  to 
the  habits  which  have  been  confirmed  by  your 
delight  in  them,  will  be  strong  enough  to 
induce  you  to  neglect,  and  even  ill-treat  her. 
No,  sir  !  I  cannot  give  you  my  child.  I  would 
rather  see  her  in  her  grave,  for  then  I  know 
she  would  be  happy." 

This  was  spoken  in  an  excited,  tremulous 
voice. 

Seeing  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  gained 
by   a  further  conference   with    Mr.   Allison, 
Campbell  arose,  and  bowing  formally,  with-        jj 
drew. 

?  $ 

"  I  have  seen  Mr.  Allison  to-day,"  he  wrote 
to  his  friend,  that  evening,  "  and  he  has  said 
*  no,'  emphatically.  He  wrote  to  the  old  man, 
who  very  affectionately  advised  him  not  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  his  dutiful  son.  A  pretty 
way  this  to  win  back  the  penitent  prodigal  ! 
Never  mind  !  He'll  be  sorry  for  this,  I'm  think- 
ing. And  now,  shall  I  back  out  and  call  myself 

\  I 

i  >' 


22  THE   MARTYE    WIFE 

beaten?  No,  I'm  blamed  if  I  do!  I'll  show 
both  of  them,  and  my  old  man  in  particular, 
that  I  can  get  Florence  Allison  in  spite  of  his 
endorsement  of  my  character.  '  But,  will  this 
be  prudent?'  you  ask.  'Won't  you  be  encum- 
bered with  a  wife,  and  yet  not  have  a  dollar 
more  with  which  to  help  yourself?' — No.  I 
think  not.  Allison  will  soon  come  round,  for 
his  daughter's  sake.  If  he  don't,  why  it's  easy 


enough  to  throw  her   upon  his  hands  again 
But  I  shouldn't  like  to  do  this,  exactly,  for  in 


very  truth  I  love  her.  Who  can  help  loving  j' 
her,  that  spends  an  hour  in  her  company !  So 
beautiful,  so  innocent,  and  yet  so  full  of  intelli- 
gence beyond  her  years,  she  interests  all,  and 
binds  all  to  her  by  a  spell  that  cannot  be 
£  broken.  p 

"  Yes,  I  will  win  her.     In  fact,  I  have  won 
her.     She  is  mine  already.     And  I  will  make 
her  happy.     I  wTill  prove  to  them  all  that  I  am 
worthy  of  her.     I  will  be  to  her  all  that  her         ^ 
fond  heart  can  desire.     But  will  she  leave  her 
home  to  go  with  me  ?    That  is  the  next  ques-          ,. 
tion.     If,  after  her  father  and  mother  find  that 
she  loves  me,  and  will  not  think  of  another,  and 
they  refuse  to  let  us  be  married,  will  she  leave 
all  for  me  ?  We  shall  see.     More  anon." 


THE   MARTYR   WIFE.  2d 


CHAPTER  III. 

AFTER  Campbell  had  parted  with  Mr.  Alli- 
son, it  occurred  to  the  latter  that,  perhaps,  the 
young  man  would  seek  opportunities  for  meeting 
his  daughter,  and  interest  her  affections  while 
she  was  entirely  unconscious  of  the  character 
of  the  individual  into  whose  company  she  had 
fallen.  As  soon,  therefore,  as  he  went  home, 
he  sought  an  opportunity  of  conferring  with 
Florence.  He  found  her  reading,  and,  seem- 
ingly, much  interested  in  the  book  she  held  in 
her  hand.  It  was  a  volume  of  poems — "  The 
Improvisatrice  and  other  poems,  by  L.  E.  L."— 
the  tone  and  spirit  of  which  accorded  with  her 
own  feelings,  just  awaking  under  the  magical 
touch  of  love's  enchanting  wand. 


My  dear,"  began  her  father,  after  sitting 
for  a  few  moments,  "  have  you  ever  met  a 
young  man  by  the  name  of  Campbell  ?" 

Though  not  intended  to  be  so,  the  question 
was  asked  in  a  tone  that  was  full  of  meaning. 

Florence  looked  up  at  the  question,  the  color 
deepening  on  her  cheek,  and  replied — 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  met  him  several  times  of  late." 

"Is  it  possible !  Where  have  you  met  him, 
Florence?' 

"  At  Mrs.  Carpenter's ;  and  once  or  twice  in 


24:  THE   MARTYR   WIFE. 

company,"  returned  Florence,  the  blood  now 
mounting  rapidly  to  her  face,  and  an  alarmed 
expression  coming  over  her  countenance.  "  But 
why  do  you  ask,  father  ?" 

"  I  ask,  my  child,  because  I  have  recently 
learned  that  about  him  which  causes  me  to 
regard  him  in  a  very  unfavorable  light.  If  he 
should  make  any  effort  to  cultivate  your  ac- 
quaintance, repel  him  at  once." 

"  You  certainly  cannot  mean  the  Mr.  Camp- 
bell of  whom  I  speak,"  Florence  said  doub 

ingly- 

"  I  mean  George  Campbell,  a  young  mai. 
from  the  South,  who  has  been  mingling  ii. 
society  here  for  the  last  few  months.  He  was 
at  Liston's  three  or  four  weeks  ago." 

"The  Mr.  Campbell  whom  I  have  met  at 
Mrs.  Carpenter's  was  there  on  the  occasion 
to  which  you  allude ;  if  he  is  the  person  you 


mean,  he  must  have  been  most  basely  traduced." 


"  Florence,  I  mean  the^  very  George  Camp- 
bell that  you  do !"  Mr.  Allison  now  said,  with 
startling  emphasis,  for  he  became  suddenly  aware 
that  the  tempter  had  already  been  at  work  upon 
her — had  already  half  won  her  heart.  "  And 
he  is,  let  me  assure  you,  a  specious  scoundrel. 
A  man  without  principle.  The  cast-off  son  of 
a  high-minded  father.  Florence,  beware  of 
him,  as  you  would  of  a  serpent  in  your  path !" 

As  Mr.  Allison  uttered  these  words  in  an 
excited  voice,  Florence  grew  deadly  pale.  Her 

[ '_ j 


THE   MARTYR   WIFE.  25 

father  did  not  fail  to  observe  this,  and  guessed 
too  well  the  cause. 

"  My  dear  child,"  he  resumed,  after  a  few 
moments'  silence,  and  in  a  calmer  voice,  "  I  see 
too  plainly  that  this  person  of  whom  I  speak 
has,  as  I  feared  that  he  would,  if  thrown  into 
your  society,  made  upon  your  mind  a  favorable 
impression.  But  let  that  impression  be  instant- 
ly effaced.  He  is  utterly  unworthy  of  a  pure 
heart's  smallest  regard.  From  all  that  I  can 
learn  of  him,  his  life  has  been  of  the  most  aban- 
doned character,  and  his  associates  the  vilest  of  s 
the  vile.  He  is  even  now  skulking  in  the  city 
from  the  pursuit  of  the  ministers  of  the  law — 
at  least,  so  I  have  been  told.  His  father,  one 
of  the  most  honorable  men  at  the  South,  has 
partially  disowned  him ;  and  he  is  now  a  mere 
selfish  fortune-hunter ;  a  man  seeking  to  form 
an  alliance  with  some  wealthy  family,  in  order 
to  get  new  supplies  of  money.  My  dear  child, 
beware  of  him." 

As  Mr.  Allison  uttered   the   last   sentence, 
Florence  burst  into  tears,  and  rising  quickly, 


s 

went  up  to  her  chamber. 


Gradually,  and  almost  insensibly,  had  her 
mind  become  first  prepossessed  in  Campbell's 
favor,  and  then  interested  in  him,  until  he  had 
come  to  fill,  almost  constantly,  her  waking 
thoughts,  and  dreams  by  night.  To  have  the 
tender  emotions  of  her  heart,  that  had  been 
going  sweetly  forth,  almost  unacknowledged  by 
herself,  thus  suddenly  breathed  upon  by  a  win- 

3  < 


— J 

i 

26  THE   MARTYR    WIFE.  <; 

try  breath — thus  checked  and  chilled,  was  more 
than  she  could  bear.  It  was  to  her  life's  first 
dark  shadow  —  the  first  cloud  in  a  hitherto 
serene  sky. 

But  did  she  credit  her  father's  description  of 
Campbell's  character  ?  Alas !  no.  In  his  deep 
anxiety  to  warn  her  of  impending  danger,  he 
had  drawn  too  strong  a  picture — he  had  said 
too  much.  Florence  could  not  believe  that  the 
intelligent,  winning,  and  apparently  pure-mind-  ;: 
ed  young  man,  who  had  interested  her  so  much, 
was  the  wretch  her  father* represented  him  to 
be.  It  was,  in  her  mind,  impossible. 

As  for  Mr.  Allison,  he  was  alarmed  and 
distressed  beyond  measure.  He  had  never 
dreamed,  for  a  moment,  that  any  serious  impres- 
sion had  been  made  upon  his  daughter's  mind. 
After  a  long  conference  with  the  mother  of  ;• 
Florence,  it  was  thought  best  to  say  nothing 
to  her  for  the  present,  but  to  prevent,  if  possi- 
ble, her  meeting  with  the  young  man  any  more. 

In  the  evening,  when  Florence  again  met  her 
father,  she  did  so  with  an  effort  to  be  cheerful, 
but  the  delicate  bloom  of  her  cheek  had  faded, 
and  her  eyes  had  a  dreamy  look. 

At  an  early  hour  she  retired,  after  receiving 
from  her  parents  the  usual  parting  kiss.  She 
went  up  to  her  chamber,  to  be  alone — not  to 
sleep.  Her  thoughts  were  too  troubled  for 
sleep.  At  first  she  sat  musing  near  the  window, 
looking  out  upon  the  sparkling  sky — then  she 
took  up  a  favorite  volume  and  read  for  half  an 
hour,  when  tears  blinded  her,  and  she  closed 


THE   MARTYR   WIFE.  27 

the  book  with  a  deep  sigh.  Hers  was  a  painful 
struggle,  and  one  too  severe  for  her  delicately 
wrought  frame.  It  was  not  a  struggle  between 
duty  to  her  parents  and  a  wish  to  receive  the 
attentions  of  Campbell.  From  the  moment  she 
understood  that  her  father  had  objections  to 
him  of  so  grave  a  nature  that  they  could  not 
be  set  aside,  she  considered  herself  as  for  ever 
separated  from  the  young  man,  although  she 
did  not  feel  the  less  confidence  in,  and  attach- 
ment for  him.  In  fact,  these,  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  were  stronger  than  before.  Her  father 
had  spoken  so  harshly  against  him,  and  had 
declared  him  corrupted  in,  to  her  mind,  so 
impossible  a  degree,  that  it  had  upon  her  just 
the  contrary  effect  to  what  had  been  designed. 
The  effort  with  her  was  one  of  endurance. 
She  was  struggling  to  be  resigned  to  the  will  of 
those  to  whom  she  had  ever  been  in  obedience, 
and  whom  she  loved  with  the  purest  affection. 

It  was  past  midnight  before  she  felt  inclined 
to  return  to  bed,  and  then  she  lay  long  awake, 
her  mind  crowded  with  thoughts  and  images 
that  would  not  suffer  her  to  sink  into  uncon- 
sciousness. But  at  last  her  eyelids  became 
heavy  with  sleep,  and  gentle  slumber  locked 
up  her  senses  in  forgetful  ness. 

In  the  morning  her  parents  saw,  with  feel- 
ings of  pain,  that  their  child's  countenance, 
instead  of  regaining  its  bloom,  was  paler,  and 
that  her  eyes  had  a  more  dreamy  look  than  on 
the  day  before.  Her  voice,  too,  was  lower,  and 


28  THE   MARTYR   WIFE. 

touched  with  a  tone  of  sadness.  They  endea- 
vored to  interest  her,  but  she  only  smiled  at 
pleasant  words  with  her  face.  There  was  no 
beaming  forth  of  the  soul  from  her  countenance. 
Thus  it  went  on  from  day  to  day,  and  from  week 
to  week,  the  cheek  of  Florence  growing  thinner 
and  paler  every  day.  She  rarely  went  out,  and 
evinced  no  desire  for  company,  usually  spend- 
ing the  greater  portion  of  her  time  alone.  She 
$  did  not  again  visit  the  house  where  she  had 
met  Campbell  so  frequently,  from  the  hour  her 
father  expressed  his  objection  to  him.  And  this 
was  from  design.  She  had  no  wish  to  meet  him. 
The  love  that  had  been  awakened  in  her  heart, 
she  dreamed  not  to  be  a  mutual  flame.  It 
was  her  maiden  secret,  guessed  at  only  by  her 
parents. 

Seeing  that  their  daughter's  health  must  suf- 
fer, vitally,  unless  her  mind  could  be  interested, 
a  journey  was  proposed  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alli- 
son. She  was  passive  in  the  matter,  evincing 
no  desire  to  go,  and  no  particular  preference  fo; 
remaining  at  home.  But,  from  the  lethargy 
that  was  creeping  over  her,  she  was  startled, 
on  the  evening  before  the  day  on  which  she 
was  about  to  commence  a  journey  to  the  Falls 
of  Niagara,  by  receiving  a  letter  from  Campbell. 

It  ran  thus :  '< 

s 

"  Pardon,  my  dear   Miss  Allison,  my  pre 
sumption  in  addressing  you.     The  strong  inte- 
rest you  awakened  in  my  mind  on  the  fr* 


r  i 

THE   MARTYR    WIFE.  29 

occasions  in  which  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meek  ^ 
ing  you,  must  be  my  excuse  for  doing  so.  It 
is  now  weeks  since  I  have  met  you.  Almost 
every  evening  has  found  me  at  my  friend  Mrs. 
Carpenter's,  in  the  expectation  of  seeing  you  as 
usual.  But  from  some  cause,  you  have  avoided  •; 
visiting  Mrs.  C.,  or,  indeed,  as  far  as  I  can 
learn,  any  one  else.  Why  is  this?  Surely  it 
is  not  to  avoid  me  ?  I  say  this,  because  certain 
persons  have  made  representations  against  me, 
to  your  father,  greatly  to  my  injury  ;  which 
have  so  prejudiced  his  mind  as  to  cause  him  to 
positively  refuse  me  the  privilege  of  visiting  you 


at  your  own  house  ;  a  privilege  which  I  had  pre- 
sumed to  ask.  From  the  day  I  was  refused 
all  opportunity  in  an  open  and  manly  way  of 
endeavoring  to  make  myself  pleasing  to  you, 
I  have  not  seen  your  face.  And  now  I  hear 
that  you  are  about  going  away  on  a  journey, 
to  be  gone  some  weeks.  This  fact  has  induced 
me  to  make  bold  to  write  to  you,  and  let  you 
know  that  there  is  one  who  cares  for  you,  and 
who  would  gladly  win  you.  I  cannot  ask  you 
to  reply  to  this,  although  a  word  from  you 
would  be  most  gladly  received." 
/  \> 

Florence  read  the  first  line  of  this  letter,  and 
then  glanced  at  the  signature.  As  she  did  so, 
her  heart  gave  a  sudden  bound,  and  the  blood 
flew  to  her  face  in  rapid  currents.  Then  she 
returned  to  the  first  line  and  read  the  epistle 
through  with  surprise,  and  a  feeling  of  exquisite 

o  # 

L          .....  ...  .................  j 


30  THE   MARTYR   WIFE. 

pleasure.  But  this  feeling  of  pleasure  quickly 
subsided  as  she  remembered  her  father's  strong 
expressions  of  dislike  towards  Campbell,  and 
the  impossibility  of  the  mutual  sentiment  being 
anything  but  a  source  of  pain  to  both  of  them. 


Again  she  read  over  the  letter,  lingering 
upon  each  sentence,  and  then  placed  it  securely 
under  lock  and  key,  in  her  drawer.  But  she 
had  no  thought  of  answering  it.  The  passion 
on  both  sides  was,  in  her  view,  a  hopeless  one. 
On  the  next  morning,  she  started  with  her 
parents  on  the  proposed  journey,  from  which 
she  returned  in  about  two  weeks,  paler  and 
thinner,  and  more  given  to  absent  mindedness 

?  and  musing,  than  before.  All  this  was  too 
apparent  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Allison,  and  affected 
them  most  painfully.  A  realization  of  their 
worst  fears  had  come.  There  was  no  doubt 
in  their  minds  as  to  the  cause  of  all  this  change, 
although  their  daughter  had  never  been  ques- 
tioned on  the  subject.  There  was,  it  seemed 
to  them,  but  one  of  two  desperate  courses  to  pur- 
sue— to  let  Campbell  visit  her,  or  suffer  her  to 

s         droop  for  a  year  or  so,  and  then  sink  into  her          J 
grave.     From  the  first,  their  hearts  turned  with 

s  unconquerable  repugnance — but  from  the  last 
with  a  feeling  of  dread  and  fear,  united  with 
something  of  self-condemnation.  And  then 
there  came  pleading  thoughts  for  the  young 
man.  He  had  promised  amendment.  Perhaps 
he  was  sincere.  Perhaps  it  might  reclaim  him, 
and  restore  health  to  the  veins  and  happiness 

f.  't 


2 
THE   MARTYR   WIFE.  31 

to  the  bosom  of  their  child.  Thus  were  their 
minds  held  in  a  state  of  vacillation  between  a 
choice  of  evils,  unable  to  decide  the  difficult 
question. 

In  the  mean  time  Campbell  was  coolly  await- 
ing the  decision  of  this  question,  as  the  follow- 
ing will  show. 


You  ask  in  your  last,  how  my  love  affair 


'ff  comes  on.  I  think  it  is  in  a  pretty  fair  way, 
Harry.  Am  I  not  in  an  interesting  position  ? 
To  have  one  of  the  sweetest  girls  in  the  country 
actually  pining  away  for  you,  is  extremely 
flattering  to  the  vanity.  Such  is  my  case.  I 
had  a  glimpse  of  Florence  yesterday,  as  she 

ft  passeu  me  in  her  father's  carriage.  She  looks 
exceedingly  pale  and  interesting.  I  am  told 
that  she  has  never  been  herself  since  the  day 
her  father  refused  to  let  me  address  her.  I 
suppose  he  attempted  to  prejudice  her  mind 
against  me,  and  this  made  her  conscious  of  how 

>;  deep  an  impression  I  had  made  upon  her  heart. 
I  wrote  to  her  once,  just  to  let  her  know  how 
I  felt  on  the  subject.  She  has  not  replied  to  it 
— I  did  not  expect  that  she  would.  But  it  told, 
I  have  no  doubt.  The  old  folks  took  her  off 
to  Niagara,  but  it  didn't  do  her  any  good.  She 
came  home  worse  than  she  went.  The  upshot 
will  be,  I  suppose,  an  order,  before  long,  for 
the  attendance  of  Doctor  Campbell.  I  am 
waiting  for  the  summons  daily.  I  doubt  not 
that  I  shall  be  able  to  prescribe  with  the  hap- 
piest result.  My  compliments  to  old  Gripe, 

i       '  .        . 1 


32  THE   MARTYR   WIFE. 


and  tell  him  to  keep  cool  a  little  longer,  —  con- 
found him  !" 


CHAPTER  IV. 


"  DIDN'T  I  tell  you  so,  Harry  !"  so  wrotf 
Campbell,  about  four  weeks  later.  "  Didn't  I 
tell  you  that  Dr.  Campbell  would  be  called  in 
before  long  ?  It  has  happened  just  as  I  pre- 
dicted. Three  or  four  days  ago,  I  received  a 
note  from  Mr.  Allison,  asking  an  interview. 
Of  course  I  was  in  prompt  attendance.  I  found 
the  old  gentleman  in  quite  a  state  of  perturba- 
tion. Florence,  it  seems,  had  become  so  ill  as 
not  to  be  able  to  leave  her  room,  and  her  case 
baffled  the  physician's  skill. 

"  After  a  long  interview,  in  which  I  took 
good  care  to  assume  as  much  as  possible  the 
character  of  a  saint,  I  was  finally  permitted  to 
see  Florence. 

"  How  shall  I  describe  her  as  she  appeared 
at  the  moment  my  eyes  first  rested  upon  her  ? 
Imagine  a  fair-haired  girl,  with  bright  blue 
eyes,  and  a  face  —  thin  and  white  —  white  and 
transparent  as  the  purest  marble,  polished  by 
the  most  exquisite  art  —  half-supported  in  bed 
by  snowy  pillows,  upon  which  her  attenuated 
form  made  scarcely  a  perceptible  indentation—- 
and you  have  a  faint  picture  of  her  appearance- 


THE   MARTYR    WIFE.  33 

In  one  hand  she  held  a  small  bunch  of  choice 
flowers,  the  delicate  odor  of  which  touched  the 
sense  instantly,  yet  almost  imperceptibly.  A 
single  pale  rose  lay  upon  her  pillow,  close  by 
her  paler  face,  and  seemed  like  a  representation 
of  the  bloom  that  had  once  mantled  the  rounded 
but  now  sunken  beauty  of  her  cheek.  Oh! 
what  a  thrill  of  tenderness  and  love  passed 
through  me,  as  my  eyes  first  met  this  touching 
picture  !  I  never  saw  so  lovely  a  sight ;  and 
et,  one  that  so  moved  me  to  tears  as  it  did. 

could  scarcely  retain  a  manly  control  over 
myself. 

"  My  entrance  seemed  to  take  her  utterly  by 
surprise.  She  had,  evidently,  received  no  inti- 
mation from  her  parents  of  the  step  they  were 
about  to  take.  Quick  as  a  flash  did  the  blood 
spring  to  her  face,  and  her  cheek  deepened  in 
bloom  until  it  paled  the  delicately  tinted  rose 
that  had  blushed  on  the  pillow  by  her  side. 

" '  Florence,'  I  said,  going  instantly  to  the 
bedside,  '  your  father  and  mother  have  con- 
sented to  let  me  see  you,  and  not  only  to  see 
you  once,  but  to  visit  you  as  often  as  you  are 
willing  that  I  shall  come.' 

"For  a  moment  or  two  she  looked  inqui- 
ringly and  incredulously  into  the  faces  of  her 
parents,  where  she  read  an  assent  to  all  I  had 
said.  Oh,  how  sweet,  how  exquisitely  sweet 
was  the  smile  that  played  about  her  lips,  as  she 
closed  her  eyes,  and  lay  with  her  long  lashes 
resting  upon  her  cheeks,  while  the  hand  I  had 

I 


34  THE   MARTYR   WIFE. 


taken  was  gently  compressed  upon  minj !  In 
a  little  while  a  tear,  bright  as  a  diamond,  stole 
out  from  'beneath  each  fringing  eye-lash,  and 
lay  sparkling  upon  her  cheeks  !  Moved  by  an 
impulse  that  I  could  not  control,  I  stooped 
down  and  kissed  them  away.  As  I  rose  up, 
half  frightened  at  the  liberty  I  had  taken,  hei 
eyes  opened  and  repaid  me  by  a  look  that 
thrilled  my  whole  being  with  delight. 

"  Our  interview  on  this  occasion  was  short, 
but  it  was  sweeter  to  my  feelings  than  I  can 
deseribe.  As  for  Florence,  I  never  saw  so  lovely 
a  creature.  The  color  that  had  sprung  so  sud- 
denly to  her  cheek,  did  not  leave  it,  but  only 
diffused  itself  more  widely,  softening  its  tint 
into  one  of  exquisite  delicacy,  and  giving  to  her 
whole  face  a  tone  of  health  beautifully  contrast- 
ing with  the  transparent  pallor  that  marked  her 
countenance  when  I  came  in.  On  leaving  her, 
we  parted  with  a  cheerful  smile  on  the  face  of 
Florence,  and  a  promise  on  my  part  to  call  on 
the  next  day  and  see  her  again. 

"  On  the  next  day  I  called,  and  found  Flo- 
rence already  able  to  sit  up.     Her  cheek  was 
blushing  in  beauty,  as  it  was  when  I  parted 
with  her  on  the  day  before.     This  time,  we 
were  left  alone  for  an  hour.    I  cannot,  of  course, 
tell  you  all  the  tender  things  that  were  uttered 
by  me,  nor  give  her  equally  tender  responses. 
It  was  an  hour  of  delicious  pleasure.     To-mor 
row,  I  am  to  see  her  again.     For  the  present 
I  must  say  good-bye.     Am  I  not  in  luck  ?" 

L & 


OR 

THE   MARTYR    WIFE.  35  > 

From  the  moment  Florence  met  Campbell, 
she  was  a  changed  being.  Health  and  spirits 
?  came  back,  her  countenance  brightened,  her 
step  became  elastic,  and  even  the  laughter  of  a 
happy  heart  fell  occasionally  from  her  lips. 
Campbell  became  a  daily  visitor,  and  soon  won 
fully  the  confidence  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Allison. 
He  was  well  educated,  had  an  active  mind,  and 
had  not  only  ti  a  veiled  much  and  seen  much  in 
his  own  country,  but  had,  some  years  previously, 
made  the  tour  of  Europe  with  his  father,  and 
gathered,  in  that  tour,  much  information  of  a 
very  interesting  character.  He  had,  also,  read 
extensively,  and  knew  how  to  make  good  use 
of  all  he  knew.  His  conversation  was,  there- 
fore, always  attractive,  and  his  society  agree- 
able. A  few  weeks'  intercourse  with  the  young 
man,  who  tried  himself,  convinced  Mr.  Allison 
that  he  had  been  harshly  judged  both  by  his 
fathci  and  others. 

Towards  Florence,  he  was  untiring  hi  his 
attentions,  and  appeared  to  her  to  possess  new 
intellectual  attractions  at  every  recurring  inter- 
view. Her  innate  love  of  the  good,  the  true 
and  the  beautiful,  was  met  by  him  with  senti- 
ments calculated  to  stimulate  that  love,  and  of 
course  to  exalt  his  character  in  her  eyes. 
Gradually,  her  ardent  mind  invested  him  with 
all  human  perfections.  He  was,  in  her  eyes,  a 
man  of  the  purest  and  noblest  ends — one  who 
would  be  to  her  like  the  manly  oak  to  the 
tender,  clinging  vine,  lifting  her  up  into  the 


region  of  his  ruling  affections,  but  into  which, 
by  the  power  of  thought,  all  can  ascend,  even 
evil  spirits  themselves,  in  their  disembodied 
forms.  (_"  The  devils  believe  and  tremble.") 
"  I  have  further  read,  that  it  is  not  truth  really 


r  i 

36  THE   MARTYR   WIFE. 

pure  regions  of  elevated  thought  and  high  toned 
•  principles,  whither  her  nature  tended  with 
intense  yearnings. 

"  How  beautiful  is  truth !"  she  said  to  him 
one  day  as  they  sat  conversing  alone.  "  If 
a  character  formed  upon  truth  as  a  basis  is  so 
beautiful  to  behold — so  lovely  as  an  object  of 
contemplation,  how  light,  how  pure,  how  like 
God  himself  must  be  truth,  as  a  principle  of 
life  flowing  from  him  !" 

"  Truth,  I  have  read  somewhere,"  replied 
Campbell,  "  is  an  entity — a  real  substantial 
existence.  A  living  and  vital  thing,  which, 
like  the  germinating  principle  in  plants,  or  that 
higher  something  that  quickens  and  continues 
to  flow  into  that  germinating  principle  as  a 
point  of  influx,  and  finding  a  place  in  the  mind 
as  a  vessel  or  form  receptive  of  it,  causes  a  new 
formation  of  the  character  to  take  place — pro- 
duces a  new  growth  of  ruling  principles,  or 
forms  and  modifications  of  itself,  but  all  with 
truth  in  the  centre,  as  a  king  ruling  in  the 
centre  or  highest  place  of  a  kingdom. 

"  Beautiful !  beautiful !"  ejaculated  Floience. 

"  And  I  have  further  read,"  continued 
Campbell,  rising  into  a  higher  and  purer  region 
of  the  mind,  a  region  above,  far  above,  the 


THE   MARTYR   WIFE.  37 

that  is  the  vital  thing,  but  good  which  is  in 
truth — good  of  which  truth  is  but  the  form, 
the  appearance — that  which  we  can  see,  touch, 
handle,  with  our  spiritual  senses." 

"  Beautiful !  Far  more  beautiful  because  it 
is  true !  It  is  not,  then,  what  a  man  thinks 
and  knows  to  be  truth,  that  is  really  truth  to 
him,  but  what  he  lives — what  he  makes  good 
by  bringing  into  actual  life.  It  is  what  a  man 


does,  not  what  he  thinks,  that  constitutes  a  true 
standard  of  estimation.     It  is  his  quality  that 


and  moral  good  may  be  advanced,  and  right 


And  it  will  show  how  this  counterfeit  presenta- 
tion may  deceive  even  the  purest  mind,  when 
under  the  control  of  that  fond  affection  which 
is  too  prone  to  invest  its  object  with  every 
virtue 

\ 


\ 

makes  him  truly  a  man." 

"  Justly  discriminated,"  Campbell  said. 
"  And  the  same  moral  qualities  give  to  woman 
her  true  loveliness  of  character.  We  love  her 
because  she  is  good,  as  well  as  beautiful. 
Beauty  fades — the  intellect  grows  dim ;  but 
good  is  a  positive  quality,  and  never  loses  its 
attractive  power." 

This  conversation  will  give  some  idea  of  the 
character  of  Florence  Allison's  mmd  ;  it  will 
show,  too,  how  doctrines  of  intellectual  truth 


principles  declared  and  approved  by  one  who  is 
corrupt  in  heart,  and  ruled  by  his  evil  passions 
instead  of  his  understanding  of  the  truth 


rx.-v/v-'' 


38  THE   MARTTR   WIFE. 


CHAPTER  V. 


Campbell  fiercely  in  the  face.    "  Who  was  she : 

Sav  !" 


"  GEORGE  !  Who  was  that  I  saw  with  you 
in  the  street  yesterday  ?" 

This  was  asked  by  a  female,  in  a  quick,  stern 
voice,  at  the  same  time  that  she  fixed  her  black 
eyes  keenly  upon  the  young  man  she  had  inteno- 
gated.  That  young  man  was  George  Campbell. 

"  I  was  with  several  persons  yesterday.  To 
whom  do  you  allude,  Ellen  ?"  was  the  some- 
what evasive  answer. 

"  You  know  well  enough  whom  I  mean !" 
the  female  replied  in  sharp  angry  tones.  "  I 
mean  that  flaxen-headed,  milk-faced  girl,  you 
have  become  so  taken  with  of  late." 

"  You  speak  in  riddles,"  was  the  young  man's 
apparently  unconcerned  rejoinder. 

"Why  don't  you  answer?"  ejaculated  the 
female,  angrily  stamping  her  foot,  and  lookin 


That  is  no  business  of  yours,  Ellen!" 
coolly  returned  Campbell,  fixing  his  eyes  with 
provoking  indifference  upon  his  excited  com- 
panion. 

"  No  business  of  mine,  ha  !  You  don't  know 
me,  George,  if  you  think  to  trifle  with  me  on 
this  subject."  Her  voice  was  calm,  and  more 


THE   MARTYR   WIFE.  39 


resolute,  and  her  eyes  were  upon  him  with  an 
unflinching  intensity.  "You  have  linked  my  ;• 
destiny  to  yours,  and  no  earthly  hand  shall 
break  the  chain.  I  loved  you,  confided  in  you, 
and  you  sacrificed  me.  I  love  you  still,  but  I 
can  hate  as  intensely  as  I  can  love.  I  will  not 
be  thrown  aside.  I  am  your  wife  as  fully  as  if 
the  marriage  bond  united  us,  and  I  will  claim 
you  before  the  world  as  my  husband,  if  you 
dare  to  resign  me  for  another.  I  have  been  all  ;> 
along  prepared  for  the  emergency  which  now  •; 
seems  to  threaten  me.  The  cost  I  have  coolly 
<  calculated  ;  and  have  fully  settled  my  course  of 
action.  I  can  be  a  firm,  confiding,  all-sacri- 
ficing friend  and  lover,  but  a  bitter  and  perse- 
cuting enemy." 

There  was  an  energy  and  pathos  about  the 
woman,  connected  with  the  strong  and  startling 
language    that   she   uttered,  which   broke   up 
jj          Campbell's  assumed  coldness  of  demeanor-yj 

"  Ellen  !"  said  he  quickly,  "  you  are  going 
mad  certainly.     The  girl  you  saw  with  me  was 
only  one  of  the  dozen  young  misses  I  have  neces- 
sarily to  treat  with  politeness,  for  the  sake  of         ; 
keeping  on  good  terms  with  their  families." 

"Wasn't  it  Miss  Allison?"  asked  Ellen, 
compressing  her  lips  tightly,  and  eyeing  Camp- 
bell with  a  steady,  penetrating  gaze. 

"  Miss  Allison  !  Nonsense  !  What  put  Miss 
Allison  into  your  head,  as  if  she  were  anything 
to  me  more  than  another  ?" 

\  \ 


40  THE   MARTYE   WIFE. 

"  Wasn't  it  Miss  Allison?  Answer  me  that, 
George !" 

"  No  it  was  not.     There !  will  that  satisfy 

you  ?     But  you  are  in  a  strange  humor,  Ellen. 

j;        Suppose  I  were  to  get  married,  for  the  sake  of 

bettering  my  fortune — that  needn't  make  me 

less  attached  to  you." 

"  Married !"  half  shrieked  the  excited  girl ; 
j;  "  never  !  Except  to  me.  That  promise  I  hold, 
and  when  marriage  is  spoken  of  by  you,  that 
promise  I  claim.  Don't  flatter  yourself  with 
the  idea  of  leading  any  woman  to  the  altar  but 
me.  It  shall  never  be  done  while  I  live !" 

"  Oh,  well,  never  mind,  Ellen,"  Campbell 
'',        said  in  a  soothing  voice.     "  I  have  no  thought 
of  getting  married.     So  you  can  cool  yourself 
off  and  put  your  heart  at  rest." 

With  this  assurance,  his  companion's  excited 
'<  feelings  were  calmed  down.  To  this  excitement 
succeeded  a  state  of  great  depression  of  spirits, 
accompanied  by  a  free  gush  of  tears,  in  the 
midst  of  which  Campbell  left  the  apartment  in 
which  the  scene  just  described  had  occurred. 
Half  an  hour  after  he  was  beside  the  pure-mind- 
ed, innocent-hearted  Florence. 

That  night  he  wrote  to  his  friend  after  the 
-  following  fashion : 

'*It's  a  true  saying,  Harry,  that  the  course 
of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth.  Here  I 
have  the  deuce  and  all  to  pay.  Don't  you 
think  that  Ellen  has  seen  me  in  the  street  with 
Florence,  and  more  than  that,  has  got,  how  the 


I  I 

THE   MARTYR   WIFE.  41 

mischiijf  only  knows,  the  notion  into  her  head 
that  I  am  going  to  marry  the  girl.  The  con- 
sequence is,  she  has  flared  up  and  told  me  to 
the  teeth,  that  I  shall  never  marry  any  one  but 
her ;  that  I  am  her  husband,  and'  as  such  she 
<;  will  claim  me  if  I  dare  to  wed  another. 

"  Verily  I  am  in  a  narrow  place.  I'm  afraid 
the  girl's  determined  spirits  will  bring  me  into , 
trouble.  I  am  pledged,  you  know,  to  Florence, 
and  our  wedding  day  is  now  but  a  few  weeks 
off.  Ellen's  suspicions  are  all  awake,  and  she 
may  do  something  before  that  day  arrives  to 
mar  everything.  I  am  not  much  afraid  of  her 
threat  in  regard  to  her  claiming  me  for  her  hus- 
band after  I  am  married.  She  only  wants  to 
frighten  me  and  prevent  the  occurrence  of  an 
event  that  will  for  ever  cut  her  off  from  the 
hope  of  getting  back  again  into  a  less  question-  $ 
able  position  than  the  one  she  now  occupies. 
I  denied  positively  that  it  was  Florence,  of 
whom  she  has  heard  some  how  or  other. 
Until  the  marriage  takes  place,  I  must  lull  her 
suspicions  by  increased  attentions ;  and  trust  to 
make  fair  weather  with  her  when  it  is  all  over. 

"  Florence  grows  more  and  more  charming 
every  day.  She  is  a  lovely  creature,  and  as 
pure  as  a  dew-drop.  How  strongly  does  she 
contrast  with  Ellen,  who,  you  know,  used  to 

be  known  as  the  beauty  of  R .    And  yet, 

I  sometimes  wish  she  had  a  portion  of  Ellen's 
fiery  nature.     I  should  then  know  better  how 
to  get  along  with  her." 
4* 


42  THE    MARTYR    WIFE. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


TIME  passed  on  until  the  wedding  day 
arrived.  The  morning  arose  without  a  cloud, 
and  the  bright  sun  smiled  upon  few  hearts  that 


bounded  in  happier  pulsations  than  that  of 
Florence  Allison.  And  yet,  a  feeling  of  pen- 
siveness  would  at  times  steal  over  her  spirits, 
and  fix  her  eye  in  dreaming  unconsciousness 
of  external  things.  A  very  dear  young  friend 
was  with  her;  one  who  could  feel  with  her 
upon  almost  every  subject.  They  were  most 
of  the  day  alone  together,  in  the  sanctuary  of 
Florence's  chamber. 

"  Your  spirits  are  not  even,  Florence,"  this 
friend  remarked,  as  she  observed  her  sinking 
into  one  of  her  abstracted  moods.  "  Sometimes 
you  are  gay  as  a  lark,  and  then  you  seem 
unusually  thoughtful.  Why  is  this  ?" 

"  It  could  hardly  be  otherwise  with  any  one 
in  my  situation,  Mary,"  replied  Florence  in  a 
quiet  tone.  "  Marriage  is  a  solemn  thing,  and 
the  relations  of  marriage  holy.  I  feel  some- 
thing like  awe  as  the  hour  approaches,  and  a 
shrinking  consciousness  that  I  am  unworthy  to 
take  upon  myself  the  solemn  vows  of  wedlock. 
I  fear  that,  weak  and  imperfect  as  I  am,  I  shall 
not  be  able  to  fill,  truly,  a  wife's  position. 


THE    MARTYR    WIFE.  43 

That  I  shall  not  be  to  him  who  has  chosen  me 
above  all  other  maidens,  the  treasure  that  he 
so  richly  deserves  to  find  in  a  wife,  Mary ! 
His  is  a  noble  nature.  Every  day's,  every 
hour's  intercourse,  only  reveals  to  me  more  and 
more  of  the  truth  and  beauty  of  his  character— 
his  pure  mindedness,  his  exquisite  perceptions, 
and  above  all,  his  goodness  of  heart — the  key- 
stone of  the  arch — the  crowning  gem  of  every 

S  /»         ,  "  9»  *» 


perfection.' 


"  You  will  be  happy,  Florence,  very  happy. 
Like  a  pleasant  stream  moving  sweetly  along 
through  fruitful  valleys,  may  your  life  glide  on, 
undisturbed  by  even  too  dark  a  ripple  upon  its 
bright  surface !" 

In  such  tender  communion  between  the 
friends,  passed  the  day.  At  last  the  hour 
approached  which  was  to  witness  the  solemn 
ceremony  of  uniting  the  lover  and  his  bride. 
Campbell  came  early,  but  with  some  misgivings 
at  his  heart  that  all  would  not  pass  off  happily. 
He  had  parted  with  Ellen  only  an  hour  before, 
and  she  had  been  unusually  excited  and  suspi- 
cious that  all  was  not  right.  Solemnly  did  she 
affirm  that  if  he  dared  to  attempt  to  marry  any 
one  but  herself,  she  would,  claim  him  as  her 
husband  at  the  altar.  There  was  something 
about  her  which  half-convinced  him  that  she  '/ 
would  put  her  threat  into  execution.  There 
appeared  something  new,  and  strange,  and  des- 
perate in  her  manner.  As  well  as  he  could, 
had  he  soothed  her  by  solemn  assurances  that 


44  THE   MARTYR   WIFE. 

her  suspicions  were  all  without  foundation. 
Still  he  was  not  easy  in  mind. 

Happily,  however,  nothing  occurred  to  mar 
the  enjoyment  of  a  single  heart.  The  cere- 
mony commenced  and  proceeded  without  inter- 
ruption. The  responses  were  all  made,  and 
then  the  young  couple  were  pronounced  man 
and  wife.  If  ever  there  was  a  joyous  heart  in 
this  world  of  sin,  such  an  one  beat  in  the  bosom 
of  the  lovely  bride,  still  in  the  blossom  of  young 
womanhood.  But  Campbell  could  not  breathe 
freely.  Ever  and  anon  his  eye  would  glance 
towards  the  door,  uneasily,  expecting  every 
moment  to  see  a  blasting  apparition.  The 
slightest  sound  that  was  unusual  would  cause 
his  heart  to  throb  quickly ;  and  the  color  to 
mount  to  his  brow. 

"  Fool !    Madman  !"    he  would  sometimes 

say  to  himself,  "  thus  to  jeopardize  not  only 

my  own  peace,  but  also  the  life  of  another.    K 

•;         that   wretched   creature  should   boldly  thrust 

herself  in  here,  all  is  lost." 

Far  different  was  the  scene  that  was  passing 
in  the  solitary  room  in  which  the  object  of  his 
uneasy  and  alarmed  thoughts  was  passing  the 
hour  which  he  had  .  consecrated  to  a  holy  rite, 
but  with  unholy  purposes. 


For  nearly  an  hour  from  the  moment  when 
she  had  good  reason  for  suspecting  that  Camp- 
bell's marriage  had  taken  place,  she  had  sat 
with  her  face  buried  deeply  in  a  pillow,  her 
feelings  so  paralyzed  and  her  thoughts  so  con- 


THE   MARTYR    WIFE.  45 


was  madness.  The  thought  of  it  alone  almost 
drove  her  to  the  verge  of  insanity. 

"I  will  do  it!"  she  at  length  exclaimed, 
starting  up.  "  I  will  confront  him  even  by  the 
side  of  his  milk-faced  beauty  !" 

Quickly  pulling  on  a  bonnet,  and  throwing 
a  shawl  loosely  over  her  shoulder,  the  excited 
creature  passed  into  the  street,  and  took  her 
way  directly  towards  the  dwelling  of  Mr. 
Allison.  A  walk  of  twenty  minutes  brought 
her  before  the  door.  From  within  came  gushes 
of  rich  music,  mingled  with  the  hum  of  happy 
voices,  and  an  occasional  burst  of  merry 
laughter. 

The  contrast  between  her  own  feelings  and 
the  scene  within  was  too  strong.  Quickly  de- 
scending the  steps,  she  dropped  her  head  upon 
her  bosom,  and  wandered  away  in  tears,  she 
knew  not  whither.  But  from  this  state  she 
again  aroused  herself,  her  resolution  to  expose 
Campbell  returning  with  full  power. 


fused,  that  her  state  was  little  above  that  of 
unconsciousness.  At  last  her  mind  began  to 
act  freely,  and  with  this  came  back  her  too 
seriously  entertained  intention  of  exposing  the 
nature  of  her  relations  with  Campbell.  She 
had  loved  him  with  a  blind  intensity,  with  a 
madness  that  had  led  her  to  sacrifice  every- 
thing— virtue  itself — at  his  feet.  To  be  set 
aside  at  last,  a  fate  long  dreaded,  to  suffer  an- 
other to  occupy  a  place  in  his  mind,  and  that  a 
higher  one  than  she  could  ever  hope  to  occupy, 


46  THE   MARTYR   WIFE. 

Again  she  stood  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Allison's 
dwelling,  her  hand  upon  the  bell.  Just  as  she 
was  about  to  ring  it  vigorously,  a  soft,  sweet 
voice  rose  clear  and  melodiously  from  within, 
accompanied  by  a  few  light  touches  of  the 
piano,  pouring  itself  forth  in  a  pensive  ballad 
of  the  olden  time.  It  was  the  very  song  that 
in  other  days  had  been  warbled  by  a  dearly 
beloved  sister,  between  whom  and  herself  evil 
courses  on  her  part  had  wrought  a  separation, 
deeply  painful  to  both.  How  many,  many 
thrilling  memories  did  the  air  and  the  words 
of  the  song  bring  back  upon  her !  But  one 
scene  it  called  up  more  distinctly  than  all  the 
rest — a  scene  like  the  present,  when  that  dear 
sister  stood  a  happy  bride  at  the  altar.  The  j; 
guilty  creature,  whose  lacerated  heart  still 
clung  to  that  only  sister,  shuddered  as  the 
picture  of  that  sister  came  distinctly  before  her 
mind,  standing  horror-stricken  before  such  a 
blasting  appearance  as  she  would  make,  were 
she  to  rush  madly  into  that  joyous  assembly. 
It  was  only  an  imagined  scene — but  it  had  its 
effect.  ji 

"  No — no  !  I  cannot  do  it !"  she  murmured, 
turning  away.  "  Happy  bride  !  The  memory 
of  my  sister  has  saved  thee  !  I  will  not  smite 
thee  down,  unconscious  injurer  of  one  whose 
heart  has  been  trampled  under  foot,  because 
thy  pale  face  was  more  attractive  than  her 
darker  beauty  !  For  my  sister's  sake  I  will 
spare  thee  !  —  my  sweet,  innocent  sister  ! — 


THE   MARTYR   'WIFE.  47 

the  very  thought  of  whom  drives  the   dark 
fiend  from  my  spirit  !" 

Slowly  and  thoughtfully  did  the  unhappy 
girl  wander  away,  she  knew  not,  and  cared  not 
whither.  Half  an  hour  after,  she  looked  up, 
as  external  consciousness  returned  once  more, 
and  threw  her  eyes  inquiringly  around  her.  She 
was  beyond  the  crowded  confines  of  the  city, 
and  alone.  The  moon  shone  from  an  unclouded 
sky,  throwing  a  dim  veil  over  wood  and  field  ; 
but  resting  in  broader  light  upon  the  foaming 
water-fall  and  gently  gliding  river. 


The  quiet  beauty  of  the  scene  calmed  down 
her  excited  feelings.  It  did  more  —  it  caused 
them  to  sink  into  despair.  So  many  touching 
memories  did  that  hour  recall  —  so  many  happy 
scenes,  and  loved  friends,  no  more  to  gladden 
her  heart  with  their  smiles  and  welcome,  did  it 
bring  up  to  her  remembrance,  that  a  calm 
desperation  took  possession  of  her,  and  ejacula- 
lating  — 

"  There's  nothing  to  live  for  now  !  No- 
thing !  —  nothing!"  stepped  quickly  forward,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  stood  beside  the  river.  As 
she  looked  down  into  the  dark  water  beneath 
her,  a  cold  shudder  passed  through  her  frame, 
and  starting  back,  she  sunk  to  the  ground,  as 
weak  as  an  infant. 

Poor  wretch  !  Who  can  tell  thy  sufferings  ! 
Who  can  count  the  pulsations  of  thy  heart  of 
hearts,  beating  with  agonizing  throbs,  deep, 
deep  and  unseen  by  mortal  eye,  from  down  in 


48  THE   MARTYR   WIFE. 


the  inner  chamber  of  affection !     Virtue  has 

i  its  own  exceeding  great  reward — its  dower  of 
joy,  that  no  thought  can  fully  estimate.  And 
virtue's  opposite  has  its  reward — its  exceeding 
great  reward  of  wretchedness  and  unutterable 

^  anguish  of  spirit.  Would  that  this  immutable 
law  were  written  as  with  a  pen  of  iron  upon 

£  every  heart — but  especially  upon  the  hearts  of 
the  young  and  still  innocent  ones  ! 

Slowly,  at  length,  did  Ellen  arise  from  the 
earth,  and  turn  her  steps  wearily  towards  the 

<;  city.  She  paused  not,  and,  indeed,  seemed  not 
conscious  of  anything  around  her,  but  took  her 

j;  steps  direct  to  her  cheerless  abode.  When 
there,  she  threw  herself  upon  her  bed,  and  lay, 

<;  for  a  long  time,  in  a  kind  of  stupor.  This,  after 
awhile,  subsided,  and  the  vibrating  pendulum 

<!        of  her  feelings  flew  to  the  opposite  extreme. 

Under  this  state  of  mind,  she  could  not  rest 
in  her  inactive  position  ;  but,  rising  up  quickly, 
with  the  exclamation — "  Oh,  that  my  heart 

\  would  break  !"  commenced  walking  the  floor 
with  hurried  steps.  This  was  continued  for  a 
few  minutes,  when  she  paused,  with  her  hand 
upon  her  head,  her  lips  apart,  and  her  nostrils 
widely  distended,  as  if  just  in  the  agony  of 
some  desperate  resolution,  to  which  her  mind 
came  up  against  almost  unconquerable  internal 
opposition.  Then  she  walked  deliberately  to  a 
trunk,  opened  it,  and  taking  therefrom  a  vial 
•containing  a  black  liquid,  swallowed  it  eagerly. 


THE   MARTYR   WIFE.  49 

This  done,  she  threw  herself  upon  the  bed, 
burying  her  face  in  a  pillow,  and  lay  as  still 
and  motionless  as  death. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

\  < 

A  WEEK  had  passed  away  on  the  fleet  wings 
of  joy,  since  Florence  Allison  had  become 
a  happy  bride,  and  the  excitement  of  parties 
and  calls,  and  congratulations,  was  begininng  to 
give  place  to  the  calmer  delights  of  the  quiet 
home  circle.  Early  in  the  evening,  the  father 
and  mother,  who  had  come  to  have  full  and 
affectionate  confidence  in  Campbell,  left  the 
young  couple  alone,  and  retired  to  their  own 
room.  Their  thoughts  were  of  their  dear  child, 
and  their  conversation  turned,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  to  things  that  concerned  her. 

"  We  have  parted  with  our  treasure  at  last," 
remarked  the  father  ;  "  and  yet,  she  seems  more 
our  own  than  ever.  May  she  be  as  happy  as 
she  deserves  !" 

"  I  think  she  will  be  happy,"  replied  ihe 
mother.  "  She  loves  her  husband  tenderly,  and 
he  seems  devoted  to  her.  How  shamefully  he 
has  been  misrepresented  !  Even  his  own  father 
had  turned  against  him." 

"  Through  false   accusation,  perhaps.     No 

K  I 


J 


50  THE   MARTYR    WIFE. 

doubt  the  young  man,  as  he  indeed  owns,  has 
been  led  away  into  early  indiscretion.  His 
father  is  a  stern  man,  with  a  high  sense  of 
honor  and  correct  principles,  and  doubtless 
judged  his  son  too  harshly.  But  I  got  a  letter 
from  him  to-day,  in  which  he  speaks  strongly 
of  his  son's  natural  good  qualities,  and  seems 


delighted  at  the  alliance.  He  begs  me  to  per- 
mit the  young  couple  to  visit  him  immediately% 
and  presses  that  we  should  accompany  them." 

"  I  cannot  think  of  going  so  long  a  journey," 
Mrs.  Allison  replied ;  "  nor  can  I  bear  the 
thought  of  being  separated  even  for  a  day  from 
Florence.  She  has  become  dearer  to  me  than 
ever." 

"  And  yet,  Mr.  Campbell's  desire  is  a  very 
natural  one,  and  I  cannot  well  see  how  we  can 
oppose  it — particularly  as  George  has  already 
expressed  a  strong  desire  to  visit  home  with 
his  bride." 

"  We  will  not,  at  least,  spare  them  for  some 
weeks  to  come." 

"  No — not  if  we  can  help  it.  But  we  must 
not  be  too  selfish." 

"  With  what  constant  anxiety,"  resumed 
Mrs.  Allison,  after  a  brief  silence,  "  have  we  !j 
looked  forward  to  this  time.  To  the  period 
when  we  should  have  to  yield  up  the  hand  of 
our  child.  Oh  !  how  much  I  have  suffered  in 
anticipation.  So  many — so  very  many — make 
shipwreck  of  happiness  here.  So  many  love- 
laden  barks  scatter  their  rich  treasures  here 


THE    MARTYR    WIFE.  51 

upon  the  bosom  of  turbid  waters.  And  our 
dear  child  has  escaped  safely  over  this  terri- 
ble danger.  She  has  found  a  bosom  upon 
which  she  may  rest  in  safety,  and  an  arm  that 
will  bear  her  up  in  her  journey  through  life. 
We  are  blessed  in " 

At  this  moment  the  door  of  the  room  in 
which  they  sat  was  thrown  suddenly  open, 
and  Florence  rushed  in,  her  eyes  wildly  start- 
ing from  her  head,  her  face  blanched  to  a 
marble  hue,  her  lips  apart,  her  nostrils  dis- 
tended, and  her  breath  almost  whistling  as 
it  rushed,  panting,  from  her  heaving  breast. 
With  a  long,  wailing  cry  of  anguish,  she 
flung  herself  upon  her  mother's  bosom,  and 
sunk  into  instant  insensibility.  j; 

Mr.  Allison,  horror-stricken  at  this  unex- 
pected apparition,  could  not  collect,  for  some 
moments,  his  bewildered  senses.  When  he  did 
recover  himself,  he  sprang  from  the  room,  and 
glided  down  stairs  with  the  swiftness  of  an 
arrow.  But  there  was  no  one  below.  The 
parlors  were  empty.  There  was  no  sign  of 
violence,  nor  anything  to  give  him  a  clue  to 
explain  the  terrific  appearance  of  Florence. 

All  night,  notwithstanding  the  constant 
attendance  of  a  physician,  she  remained  uncon- 
scious, with  scarcely  a  perceptible  respiration. 
At  day-light,  she  appeared  to  recover  a  little, 
but  took  no  notice  of  any  one.  The  expression 
of  her  face  had  remained,  from  the  first, 
troubled,  and  her  pure  white  brow  marked  with 


52  THE   MARTYR    WIFE. 


unusual  lines.     Her  husband  did  not  make  his          ? 
appearance   through  the  night,  and  this  only 
rendered  the  mystery  of  her  condition  the  more 
inexplicable.     But  he  was  there  by  day-dawn, 
almost  as  pale  as  his  insensible  wife. 

To  all  the  agonized  importunities  of  the  dis- 
tressed parents,  to  tell  them  what  had  happened 
— what  was  the  secret  of  their  daughter's  dread- 
ful condition — he  maintained  a  rigid  silence,  or 
replied,  gloomily, 

"  Do  not  ask  me." 

Taking  his  position  by  her  bed-side,  he  never 
seemed  for  a  moment  to  withdraw  his  eyes 
from  her  pallid  face  ;  but  gazed  constantly  upon 
her  —  sometimes  with  an  expression  of  deep 
tenderness,  and  sometimes  with  looks  of  the 
bitterest  anguish. 

Towards  the  evening  of  that  day,  Florence 
began  to  show  more  indications  of  returning 
consciousness.  She  became  restless,  and  mjit- 
tered  frequently — but  no  words  could  be  distin- 
guished. It  was  near  the  hour  of  sun-set,  and 
the  father  and  mother,  with  her  husband,  the 
physician,  and  three  or  four  intimate  friends, 
were  standing  or  sitting  about  the  bed,  anxious- 
ly watching  the  expression  of  her  face,  or 
endeavoring  to  catch  the  words  that  were  ever 


and   anon  murmured,  incoherently,  wrhen   she 
opened  her  eyes  with  an  intelligent  expression, 
and  looked  inquiringly  into  the  many  faces  that 
were  around  her. 
"  Dear,  dear  Florence  '."exclaimed  Campbell, 


THE   MARTYR    WIFE.  53 

in  an  agitated  voice,  bending   eagerly   over 
towards  her. 

But,  as  her  ear  caught  the  sound  of  his  voice, 


and  her  eye  his  face,  she  instantly  shrunk  back 
with  a  look  of  fear,  repugnance,  and  even  hor- 
ror, and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

The  physician  instantly  drew  him  away  with 
a  strong  hand,  whispering  in  his  ear  in  a  deep, 
hoarse  whisper,  as  he  did  so — 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  sir,  keep  out  of  her 
sight,  or  her  case  is  hopeless  !" 

With  strange  passiveness,  Campbell  permit- 
ted himself  to  be  withdrawn  from  the  room  by 
the  physician,  who  obtained  from  him  a  promise 
not  to  attempt  to  see  her  again,  except  with  his 
permission,  and  in  his  company.  He  then  left 
rs  the  house,  without  holding  further  conference 

with  any  one.  ; 

The  tender  words  and  caresses  of  her  parents, 
united  with  the  assurance  that  her  husband  was 
not  in  the  room,  caused  Florence  again  to  look 
up,  but  with  a  face  painfully  marked  by  inward  jj 
anguish  of  spirit.  This,  however,  subsided  after 
a  time,  and  she  lay  in  a  calmer  frame  of  mind, 
and  continued  to  do  so  for  some  hours,  when 
she  sank  into  sleep,  and  remained  in  this  peace- 
ful state  during  the  night. 

In  the  morning  she  was  calm,  but  very  pale, 
and  altogether  indisposed  to  converse.  She 
wo"uld  listen,  while  the  tears  gathered  in  her 
eyes,  to  tender  words  from  her  parents ;  but 
became  instantly  agitated  the  moment  any  one 

5*  i 


\ 

54  THE   MARTYR   WIFE. 

•I 

alluded,  even  the  most  remotely,  to  the  cauV 
of  the  terrible  change  that  had  come  over  he" 
so  suddenly  —  and  which  was  still,  to  all,  an 
unexplained  mystery.  The  physician  saw 
Campbell  every  day,  but  he  steadily  refused  to 
give  even  the  slightest  clue  to  the  inexplicable 
circumstances 


THE   MARTYR    WIFE. 


I  •       \ 

I  I 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  DEAR  HARRY" — so  wrote  Campbell,  about 
a  week  after  the  event  just  detailed — "  Your 
letter  has  found  me,  not  the  happy  man  you 
have  described,  but  the  most  miserable  wretch 
in  existence.  My  cup  of  bliss  has  been  dashed 
from  my  lips  ere  the  first  few  drops  of  its 
delicious  contents  were  more  than  tasted. 
Dashed  to  the  earth,  and  broken  into  a  thousand  ^ 
pieces. 

"  On  the  night  of  my  marriage,  I  was  in  a 
most  painful  state  of  uncertainty  and  fear.  I 
saw  Ellen  just  before  evening,  and  found  that 
she  either  knew,  or  strongly  suspected  that  I 
was  going  to  be  married  that  night.  She  tried 
her  best  to  keep  me  with  her,  but  I  went  away 
under  a  feigned  pretence.  As  I  left  her,  she 
looked  me  steadily  in  the  face,  and  said,  with 
unusual  earnestness — 

"  '  Remember  what  I  have  told  you.     If  )ou        [, 
\          dare  to  marry  another,  I  will  claim  you  at  the        < 
altar.' 

"  I  affected  to  laugh  at  her,  and  then  went 
away.     But  I   was  uneasy.     Every   moment       *> 
during  the  evening,  I  expected  to  see  her  enter 
and  execute  her  threat.     But,  fortunately,  she 


J  •*"-  "•, 

56  THE   MARTYR   WIFE. 

did  not  come.  On  the  next  day,  as  early  as  I 
could  get  out,  I  went  to  see  her.  As  I  opened 
the  door  of  her  room,  I  was  almost  driven  back 
by  a  strong,  suffocating,  and  offensive  odor  of 
laudanum.  Springing  to  the  bed,  upon  which 
I  saw  that  she  was  lying,  I  lifted  her  up,  and 
found  that  she  had,  indeed,  swallowed  the  poison 
indicated  by  the  fumes  in  the  room.  But  she 


had,  I  suppose,  taken  too  much,  for  her  stomach 


had  rejected  the  fatal  draught,  retaining  only 
sufficient   to   throw  her  into   a  profound  and 


somewhat  prolonged  sleep.     Calling  in  assist- 


ance, and  a  physician,  I  left  her,  half  regretting 
that  she  had  not  done  the  work  more  efficiently. 
On  the  next  day,  I  visited  her  again,  and  found 
her  in  bed,  suffering,  still,  from  the  effects  of 
her  attempt  upon  her  own  life.  I  did  not  say 
much  to  her,  except  to  chide  her  for  her  folly, 
which  she  bore  with  a  kind  of  stern  defiance. 
I  did  not  remain  long  with  her,  but  returned 
toward  evening.  She  was  better,  but  had  not 
risen. 

"  During  the  next  four  or  five  days,  I  could 
not  possibly  get  freed  from  the  many  engage- 
ments and  the  press  of  company  that  occupied 
me  almost  every  hour,  long  enough  to  go  and 
see  her.  I  felt  anxious  all  the  time,  however, 
and  had  a  kind  of  foreboding  that  trouble  was 
ahead — that  I  should  yet  be  made  to  suffer, 
and  all  connected  with  me,  for  the  wrong  1  had 
done  her — a  wrong  that  it  was  out  of  my 
power  to  recompense. 


i  i 

THE   MARTYR    WIFE.  57 

"  It  was  just  a  week  from  the  night  of  our 
marriage,  when,  for  the  first  time,  Florence  and 
I  had  an  evening  to  ourselves.  We  were  seated 
on  a  sofa,  her  hand  in  mine,  and  her  sweet  face 
turned  towards  me.  We  were  talking  of  the 
future.  Her  heart  was  full  of  pleasant  antici- 
pations. The  whole  world,  in  her  eyes,  teemed 
with  blessings  for  the  good.  And  she  was 
good.  She  did  not  say  this.  But  it  was  con- 
scious innocence  that  spoke. 

"  All  at  once  the  door  was  flung  open,  and 
in  stalked  Ellen  !  Her  face  was  pale — her  lips 
tightly  drawn  across  her  teeth — and  her  eyes 
flashing  with  malignant  passion.  Oh  !  how  I 
did  for  a  single  moment  long  for  the  power  of 
invisibility  !  But  there  was  no  escape.  Flo- 
rence uttered  an  exclamation  of  alarm,  and  half 
clung  to  me  in  fear.  I  expected  that  the  un- 
happy creature  would  at  once  break  forth  into 
angry,  vindictive,  and  half-insane  language. 
But  I  was  mistaken.  I  only  wish  she  had  done 
so,  for  then  I  might  have  had  it  in  my  power 
to  break  the  force  of  her  allegations  by  decla- 
ring her  to  be  a  crazy  woman.  But  she  did  not 
leave  me  even  that  slender  foundation  to  stand 
upon. 

"  For  a  few  moments  she  stood  near  the  centre 
of  the  room,  looking  fixedly  at  us — as  we  still 
remained  seated,  and  Florence  clinging  to  me — 
the  stern,  angry  expression  of  her  face  gradu- 
ally changing  to  a  milder  cast.  At  length  she 

>  / 


S  58  THE   MARTYR    WIFE.  "/ 

came  close  up  to  us,  and  said  to  Florence,  in  » 
half  sad  tone  of  voice  — 

"  '  I  pity  you,  poor  girl  !  But  I  cannot  help 
what  I  am  now  doing.  A  bruised  heart  cannot 
bear  even  a  little  blow  without  extreme  pain, 


far  less  the  grasp  of  an  iron  hand  crushing  it  to 
atoms  !' 

"  '  Ellen  !  I  cannot  suffer  this  !'  I  interrupted 
her,  unconscious,  in  the  confusion  of  the  moment, 
that  in  calling  her  by  name,  I  was  confessing          ;' 
an  acquaintance  which,  of  all  things,  my  policy 
should  have  been  to  avoid. 

"'  Silence!'  she  exclaimed,  with  sudden 
energy,  stamping  her  foot.  '  Your  power  to 
command  me  has  gone.  I  was  once  slave 
enough  to  you  to  crouch  at  your  feet  for  smiles 
and  favor.  That  time  is  past.  But,  pardon, 
gentle  lady  !'  she  said,  regaining  her  calmness 
of  manner,  and  addressing  Florence,  towards 
whom  the  feeling  of  spite  and  anger  before 
entertained,  seemed  to  have  entirely  subsided. 
There  was  a  power  in  innocence  to  subdue 
even  the  fiend  that  had  possessed  her.  '  I  have 
come  here  to  claim  my  husband.  George  Camp- 
.1  bell  and  I  were  united  years  ago,  by  a  bond 
which  cannot  be  broken  —  a  bond  as  sacred  and 
as  binding  as  that  which  has  united  you  — 
though  no  holy  priest  consecrated  the  union. 
He  won  my  heart  in  my  happy  home,  far  in 
the  South  —  a  home  as  pleasant  as  this  which 
shelters  you,  gentle  lady,  and  in  which  were 


THE   MARTYR   WIFE.  59 

those  who  loved  me  as  dearly  as  any  here  love 
you.  He  betrayed  me  from  innocence — but  I 
clung  to  him,  and  gave  up  all  for  him — father 
and  mother,  and  fond  sisters,  who  had  cherished 
me  with  a  holy  affection.  And  now  he  aban- 
dons me  for  a  fairer  face — or,  perhaps  for  the 
wealth  that  goes  with  your  hand  ;  and  throws 
rae  aside  like  a  withered  flower.  But  this 
shall  not  be.  I  have  warned  him,  but  he  has 
not  heeded  my  warning.  I  told  him  that  I 
would  assert  my  claim  to  him  even  at  the  altar 
to  which  he  led  his  bride,  if  he  dared  to  wed 
another.  I  have  his  promise,  sealed  on  the 
altar  of  my  innocence,  to  restore  me  to  my 
friends,  acknowledged  before  the  world  as  his 
wedded  wife.  That  he  must  still  do.  Your 
claim  to  him  is  void — your  marriage  rite  was 
but  a  solemn  mockery.  He  is  not  your  hus- 
band— he  never  can  be  while  I  live.' 

"  As  the  mad  creature  thus  went  on,  Florence 
gradually  disengaged  herself  from  the  arm  that 
I  had  thrown  around  her,  and  had  half  risen  to 
her  feet,  her  face  as  white  as  marble,  when 
Ellen  paused  at  the  last  sentence  I  have 
given.  A  moment  after,  Florence  was  gliding 
from  the  room  with  a  step  as  fleet  as  an 


antelope's. 

"The  moment  she  left  the  apartment,  I 
seized  Ellen  by  the  arm,  and  dragged  her  with 
the  energy  of  a  madman  from  the  house,  cursing 
her  in  a  low,  bitter  tone,  from  the  very  centre 


60  THE   MARTYR   WIFE. 

of  my  heart.  As  soon  as  we  had  both  gained 
the  street,  I  flung  her  from  me  with  a  desperate 
force,  arhich  caused  her  to  fall  headlong  upon 
the  pavement.  This  brought  me  a  little  to  my 
senses.  If  she  wrre  to  be  found  dead  or  dying 
at  Mr.  Allison's  door,  it  could  only  make 
matters  worse,  I  thought,  and  so  went  to  her 


and  lifted  her  up.  She  was  a  little  stunned, 
but  soon  recovered,  and  walked  along  by  my 
side  for  a  square  or  two.  Then  1  attempted  to 
leave  her,  but  she  laid  hold  of  my  arm  and  said, 
resolutely — 

" '  No,  George  !  You  shall  not  leave  me 
to-night.' 

"  I  cursed  her  !  I  threatened  to  kill  her  on 
the  spot !  But  it  availed  nothing.  She  was 
immovable.  At  length,  I  was  compelled  to  go 
home  with  her.  As  she  entered  her  apartment, 
I  thrust  her  in,  closed  the  door  quickly,  and 
fastened  it  on  the  outside.  I  never  saw  her 
afterwards.  In  the  morning  she  was  found 
dead,  having  taken  another  and  more  correctly- 
gauged  draught  of  laudanum.  Curse  the  fate 
that  prevented  the  first  from  doing  its  work ! 
I  saw  the  fact  mentioned  in  the  papers,  and 
also  an  account  of  the  inquest — but  I  did  not 
go  near  her.  She  sleeps  now,  I  suppose,  with- 
out a  stone  to  mark  the  spot — a  tenant  of  the 
Potter's  field !  Poor  Ellen  !  I  cursed  her  life, 
and  she  has  now  cursed  mine !  So  we  are  even. 
But  the  curse  stops  not  with  me,  else  would  I 


1 

THE  MARTYR   WIFE.  61 

not  complain.  Florence  was  pure  as  a  snow- 
flake,  and  innocent  as  an  angel.  Strange 
fatality,  that  should  include  her  in  the  blighting, 
withering  curse ! 

"  All  night  I  walked  the  streets,  a  prey  to 
the  most  agonizing  thought.  I  felt  that  what 
Ellen  had  said  was  too  true — that  I  was  not, 
really,  the  husband  of  Florence.  That  I  had 
no  right  to  go  near  her,  and  sear  her  eyes  with 
my  polluted  presence.  That  she  and  I  had 
not  been,  and  never  could  be,  truly  united  as 
one.  A  little  after  day-dawn  I  ventured  in, 
and  found  her  in  a  state  of  insensibility,  and 
learned  that  she  had  been  in  that  condition  all 
night.  Her  parents  overwhelmed  me  with 
eager  questions  as  to  the  cause  of  the  sudden 
and  alarming  change  that  had  taken  place  in 
their  daughter.  But  I  refused  to  give  them 
any  clue  to  the  mystery.  I  dared  not. 

"  All  day  long  I  sat  by  her  side.  Towards 
evening  she  began  to  recover,  and  before  the 
sun  went  down,  consciousness  had  returned. 
But  the  moment  her  eyes  rested  upon  me,  she 
shrank  away  with  a  look  of  terror,  and  gasped 
for  breath,  as  if  my  presence  would  suffocate 
her.  At  the  earnest  request  of  the, physician, 
I  retired  at  once,  and  have  not  seen  her  since. 
I  visit  the  doctor  every  day,  but  he  gives  me 
little  encouragement  in  regard  to  her.  He  will 
not  give  his  consent  for  me  to  see  her.  Her 
life,  he  says,  depends  upon  keeping  her  mind 
free  from  any  excitement. 

I      •    ' _!: I 


62  THE    MARTYR    WIFE. 

'< 

"  I  am  living  in  a  state  of  dreadful  suspense. 
Sometimes  I  resolve  to  leave  this  accursed 
place  and  hide  myself  somewhere  in  a  wilder- 
ness. But  I  cannot  tear  myself  away.  I  must 
remain  here  until  the  fate  of  Florence  is  decided. 
Most  liksly  she  will  soon  sleep  a£  soundly  as 


my  first  victim." 


\  •  £  '    - 

I 

I    • 


THE   MARTYR    WIFE.  63 


CHAPTER  IX.  lt 

UP  to  a  certain  point,  Florence  recovered 
from  the  terrible  shock  she  had  sustained,  and 
then  commenced  slowly  to  decline,  with  a  dis- 
ease for  which  the  physician  had  no  remedy. 
She  was  able,  in  the  course  of  a  week,  to  leave 
her  room,  and  go  about  the  house,  but  she 
neither  went  out  nor  saw  company,  except  one 
<  or  two  particular  friends.  The  name  of  her 
husband,  it  was  soon  perceived,  could  not  be 
mentioned  in  her  presence.  If  spoken,  even 
accidentally,  she  would  become  instantly  pale 
and  agitated.  Everything  belonging  to  him 
was  removed  from  her  chamber,  and  everything 
that  could  remind  her  of  him,  kept  out  of  her 
sight.  Once  her  mother,  painfully  anxious  to 
penetrate  the  mystery  that  hung  round  her 
child,  urged  her  earnestly  upon  the  subject.  ;> 
She  grew  instantly  agitated  as  usual,  and  then 
gave  way  to  tears.  These  enabled  her  to 
allude  to  it,  as  her  feelings  calmed  down.  But 
she  only  did  so  to  declare  that  what  had 
occurred  on  that  dreadful  evening,  could  njever 
pass  her  lips.  It  was  a  secret  for  ever  locked 


. 

ji  her  own  heart,  where  it  was  consuming  her 
!>         Jke  a  hidden  fire. 

!  v   _  ____  \ 


64  THE    MARTYR    WIFE. 


Sadly  did  the  parents  watch   the   gradual 


progress  of  the  disease  that  was  silently  but 
surely  carrying  their  beloved  child  down  to  the 
grave.  As  time  passed  away,  she  seemed  to 
rise,  in  a  degree,  superior  to  the  depressing 
influence  which  her  pain  of  mind  had  exercised 
over  her  spirits,  and  to  be  calm  and  peaceful, 
if  not  happy.  But  the  fatal  malady  that  was 
consuming  her,  paused  not  for  a  moment  in  its 
deadly  progress. 

After  a  few  weeks,  the  color  came  back  to 
her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  grew  brighter, Awak- 
ing up  in  the  bosoms  of  her  parents  a  thrill  of 
hope.  But  the  bloom  and  brightness  deceived 
not  the  physician  for  a  moment,  although  he 
could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  break,  in  the 
minds  of  the  aged  parents,  the  feeble  hopes  that 
these  indications  instantly  excited.  Day  after  ;> 
day  now  past  on,  and  week  after  week,  and  at 
length  Florence  became  so  feeble  that  she  could 
not  leave  her  chamber, — but  her  cheek  was 
still  touched  with  the  most  delicate  bloom,  and 
her  eye  undiminished  in  its  brightness. 

To  her  parents  and  the  few  friends  who  jj 
gathered  around  her,  she  now  became  an  object 
of  deeper  and  tender  interest.  The  purity  and 
sweetness  of  her  character  shone  out  lovelier 
and  more  winning,  as  she  drew  nearer  and 
nearer  to  that  world  of  blessedness  and  peace,  to 
which  she  was  fast  journeying — that  world 
where  no  cheating  counterfeit  of  true  affection 
can  ever  deceive  the  heart,  and  breathe  over 
its  opening  blossoms  a  withering  mildew. 


THE   MARTYR   WIFE.  65 

"  Dear  child  !  can  you  not — will  you  not  live 
for  us  ?"  urged  her  mother  one  day,  in  a  voice 
of  touching  entreaty,  as  her  heart  shrunk  trem- 
blingly away  from  the  sad  indications  too 
plainly  presented,  that  few  were  the  days  left 
for  her  child  to  number  on  earth.  Florence 
looked  into  her  mother's  face,  witu  the  tears 
standing  in  her  eyes,  and  said  in  a  quivering 
voice : 


"  I  am  _not  guilty  of  self-destruction,  dear 


mother  !    I  try  to  live  for  your  sakes,  although 
I  earnestly  ,long  for  the  hour  that  shall  release 
me.     But  there  is  here,"  laying  her  hand  upon 
her  bosom,  "  a  feeling  as  if  something  had  been         £ 
taken  away.     As  if  there  were  a  void  there, 
which  cannot  be  filled  in  this  world.     I  have 
tried  to  lift  up  my  head,  and  be  as  I  have  been.        !> 
But  I  cannot.     Every  such  struggle  has  only 
left  me  weaker  than  before." 

"  But  will  you  not  tell,  dear  Florence,  the 
cause  ?     Why  leave  us  in  such  doubt  ?" 

"  Mother  !  Do  not  urge  me  farther  on  that 
point,"  she  said,  in  a  calmer  tone  than  any  in 
which  she  had  yet  been  able  to  allude  to  the 
subject.  "  Let  it  suffice  for  you  to  know  that 
I  have  been  cruelly  deceived  by  one  who  may 
have  had  some  affection  for  me,  but  who  was 
utterly  unworthy  of  my  love.  -Had  not  thig 
knowledge  come  upon  me  suddenly,  like  a  flash 
of  lightning,  I  might  have  borne  up  against  its 
crushing  weight.  I  might,  perhaps,  but  I  know 
not,  have  been  able,  in  time,  to  have  risen  supe- 
6* 


66  THE   MARTYR   WIFE. 

rior  to  its  effects.  But  coming  as  it  did  with- 
out a  moment's  warning  —  without  the  fore- 
shadowing of  a  single  dark  suspicion — just  at  a 
time  when  I  felt  most  secure — just  when  all  my 
heart  had  been  yielded  up  in  happy  unconscious- 
ness of  aught  save  the  joy  of  being  beloved  by  a 
pure,  noble,  manly  heart — made  the  trial  more 
than  I  had  strength  to  bear.  Mother  !  All  this 
may  seem  to  you  a  weakness.  Perhaps  it  is — 
but  I  cannot  help  it.  I  have  struggled  hard  to 
keep  up.  I  have  reasoned  with  myself  time 
and  again,  but  it  will  not  do.  My  life's  love 
is  gone.  Oh,  with  what  exquisite  delight  have 
I  dreamed  over  the  thought  of  a  union  with  one 
whose  manly  character  and  high  virtues  would 
sustain  me,  as  the  tall  tree  sustains  the  clinging 
vine !  Upon  such  a  one  I  fondly  imagined  I 
had  poured  out  the  treasured  affections  of  my 
heart ;  and  that  these  affections  would  be  gar- 
nered up  in  a  bosom  unpolluted  by  vice.  J3ut 
it  was  not  so.  All  these  affections  have  been 
wasted.  They  can  never  return  to  me  again, 
— and  they  were  my  life." 

On  another  occasion,  to  a  very  dear  young 
friend,  she  said, — 

"  It  is  a  sad  thing  to  pour  out  your  best  affec- 
tions— to  give  up  every  thought  and  wish  in 
life  to  the  keeping  of  one  who  proves  himself 
to  be  unworthy  of  the  sacrifice — whose  love  is 
but  a  cheating  counterfeit — whose  bosom  holds 
a  betrayer's  heart.  To  be  loved  by  such  a  one 
with  his  false  passion-fire,  is  but  to  be  cursed. 


™ 

THE   MARTYR    WIFE.  67 

j  j 

I  am  thus  cursed,  and  am   sinking  under   its 
baleful  effects." 

"  But  cannot  you,  dear  Florence,"  urged  the 
friend,  "  dismiss  all  thoughts  like  these  from 
your  mind,  and  let  other  things  come  and  take 

/  possession ;  thus  reviving  your  spirits  with  a 
new  interest  ?  Who  can  love  you  more  ten- 
derly than  your  father  and  mother?  Cannot 

\         love  such  as  theirs  sustain  you  ?" 

"  It  ought,"  replied  Florence,  her  eyes  run-         !; 
ning  over  with  tears.     "  I  know  it  ought,  but 
it  does  not ;  I  am  a  wedded  wife,  but  where  is 
my  husband  ?    A  place  has  suddenly  been  made         ij 
vacant  in  my  heart,  which  can  never  be  filled  ; 


and  with  that  aching  void  within  I  cannot  live. 
I  feel  that  this  is  so.  Oh,  how  cruelly  I  have 
been  deceived !  But  mine  is  not  the  only 
breaking  heart  that  he  has  trampled  upon. 
There  is  another  more  wretched  than  I — more 
wretched,  because  bound  to  him  by  crime." 

These  were  the  nearest  allusions  she  ever 
made  to  the  actual  event  that  had  taken  place. 
They  were  enough,  however,  to  cause  Mr. 
Allison,  as  soon  as  it  was  told  to  Mm,  to  resolve 
never  again  to  suffer  the  unhappy  young  man 
to  cross  his  threshold. 


68  THE   MARTYR    WIFE. 


CHAPTER  X.  I 

THE   CONCLUSION. 

WE  close  this  painful  but  instructive  history          s 
with  another  letter  from  Campbell,  written  four 
months  from  the  day  of  his  marriage : 

"  The  curtain  has  at  last  fallen,"  he  wrote 
to  his  friend — "  the  curtain  of  death,  and  Flo- 
rence sleeps  in  the  grave.  I  was  not  permitted 
to  see  her  in  her  last  moments,  earnestly  as  I 
plead  for  the  boon.  Perhaps  it  is  well.  My 
presence  would  only  have  disturbed  the  blessed 
tranquillity  with  which  I  am  told  her  evening 
of  life  closed  in.  What  a  power  there  is  in 

!;  goodness !  Blasted  as  had  been  all  her  hopes 
— crushed  as  had  been  her  heart,  she  could  yet 
go  down  to  the  grave  in  peace. 

"  From  the  time  I  parted  with  her,  on  the 

j;  evening  succeeding  the  accursed  intrusion  of 
Ellen,  I  did  not  look  upon  her  face  until  after 
her  pure  spirit  had  left  its  frail  but  beautiful 
body.  Then,  for  an  hour,  I  was  permitted  to 

\  gaze  alone  upon  the  wreck  I  had  made.  1 
cannot  describe  my  feelings  during  that  hour 
which  I  spent  in  the  still  chamber  of  death. 
It  would  hardly  express  my  true  state,  were 


THE   MARTYR   WIFE.  69 

> 


I  simply  to  say  that  I   solemnly  resolved  to 


live  in  the  future  a  purer  life.  Such  resolu- 
tions I  have  too  often  made  before  ;  but  they 
were  not  made  as  was  this  one.  This  I  feel 
that  I  shall  keep.  In  every  hour  of  future 
temptation — for  temptation  I  know  that  I  shall 
have  to  endure — one  thought  of  the  pale  sweet 
face  of  Florence,  as  it  looked  when  I  last  gazed 
upon  it,  will  give  me  a  more  than  hurran 
power.  But,  is  it  not  a  painful  thought,  that 
one  like  me  is  to  be  saved  by  the  agonies 
beyond  description,  of  one  like  her  ? 

"  I  have  seen  neither  the  father  nor  mother 
since  her  death.  They  do  not  wish  to  meet 
me — and  who  can  blame  them  ?  But  the  phy- 
sician, in  whose  mind  I  have  been  able  to 
awaken  some  feelings  of  interest,  has  given  me 
an  account  of  her  last  moments.  Eagerly  did 
I  listen  for  some  allusions  to  myself — but  none 
were  made.  She  seemed  to  have  banished  me 
from  her  thoughts,  as  she  would  a  form  of  evil. 
She  died  as  peacefully  as  an  infant  sinking  into 
slumber.  The  grave  has  no  terrors  for  the 
innocent — and  she  was  pure  as  a  seraph. 

"In  a  few  days  I  shall  leave  the  place, 
and  return  home  to  my  father's  house,  as  a 
prodigal  who  has  fed  too  long  upon  the  husks. 
I  will  begin  life  anew.  Oh,  that  I  could  do 
it  as  a  little  child,  with  only  hereditary  forms, 
without  the  deadly  biaj  of  confirmed  evil !  I 
have  sown  the  wind,  and  leaped  the  whirlwind. 
I  Ijave  hewn  unto  myself  cisterns,  broken 


}  70  THE    MARTYR   WIFE. 

cisterns  that  can  hold  no  water.  I  have  sought 
for  food  upon  barren  mountains,  and  now, 
weary,  and  sick,  and  faint,  I  long  to  return. 
Oh,  that  I  could  ever  retain  my  present  state 
of  mind !  But  I  know  that  evil  propensities 
will  return  like  a  flood  upon  me,  and  unless 
I  get  strength  beyond  my  own  to  struggle 

'/  against  them,  will  assuredly  overcome  me. 
It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  follow  after  evil 
pleasures ! 

"  My  feelings  are  so  strong,  and  so  suffocate 
me,  that  I  must  lay  aside  my  pen.     What  the 

s'  tenor  of  my  future  life  will  be,  I  know  not. 
The  present  I  believe  to  be  the  great  crisis  of 
my  fate.  This  is  my  last  struggle.  If  good 
conquers,  I  am  saved  —  if  evil,  I  am  lost. 
Involuntarily,  almost,  I  sometimes  lift  up  a 
prayer  for  aid.  But  I  instantly  shudder  at 
such  presumption.  How  dare  I,  polluted  and 


THE 


corrupt  as  I  am,  look  to  a  pure  and  holy  Being 
like  God  ?  But  He  must  aid  me,  or  I  am  lost 
for  ever.  Adieu !" 


THE 


HEIRESS. 


i 
BY  T.  S.  ARTHUB. 


THE   HEIRESS. 


CHAPTER  1. 


ONE  cold  afternoon  in  November,  after  the 
pleasant  Indian  Summer  had  passed  away,  and  the 
chilly  season  that  immediately  precedes  winter  had 
set  in,  a  girl,  whose  age  seemed  not  more  than 
nineteen,  paused  before  a  large  house  in  Walnut 
street,  and  stood  for  some  minutes  with  an  air  of 
irresolution.  Then  she  walked  on,  drooping  her 
eyes  to  the  pavement,  as  she  did  so.  Her  face 
was  very  fair,  but  pale  and  anxious;  her  form 
slender  and  graceful;  her  dress  worn  and  faded, 
yet  fitting  neatly  her  well  formed  person ;  her  air 
and  manner  like  one  who  had  moved  in  a  differ-  ? 

ent  circle  than  the  one  to  which  she  now  seemed 
to  belong. 

After  walking  on  for  nearly  two  squares,  she 
paused,  stood  thoughtful  for  several  minutes,  and 
then  turned  and  went  slowly  back.  Again  she  was 
before  the  handsome  dwelling  we  have  named — 
again  she  stopped  and  remained  some  time  in 
debate.  At  length  she  ascended  the  marble  steps 
leading  to  the  door,  and  timidly  rung  the  bell — 
or,  rather,  attempted  to  ring  it;  but  she  drew  the 

:          .  *.         i    i  1  1  mi  I        11  1 

' 


wire  with  too  feeble  a  hand.     The  bell  answered 
not  to  the  effort.     For  nearly  five  minutes  she 


4  THE    HEIRESS. 

stood,  waiting  for  the  door  to  open.  But,  no  one 
came.  Now  her  heart  seemed  to  fail  her  again, 
for,  instead  of  ringing  with  a  firmer  hand,  she 
quietly  turned,  and  descending  the  steps,  moved 
with  evident  reluctance  away,  frequently  pausing, 
however,  to  look  back. 

By  this  time  the  dusky  twilight  began  to  fall 
soberly  around.  It  was  perceived  by  the  stranger, 
after  she  had  walked  on  for  some  distance,  and 
caused  her  to  stop  quickly,  while  a  shudder  ran 
through  her  frame,  and  she  clasped  her  hands 
together  with  a  quick,  involuntary  motion. 

"I  must  do  it.  There  is  no  other  hope  for 
me,"  she  at  length  said,  with  forced  resolution. 
And  turning  back,  she  approached  the  house  she 
had  twice  before  hesitated  to  enter.  Now,  with- 
out giving  herself  time  to  hesitate,  she  walked 
firmly  up  the  steps,  and  rung  the  bell  with  a  strong 
hand.  A  few  moments  elapsed,  and  the  door  was 
thrown  open. 

"  Can  I  see  Mrs. ?"  she  asked,  in  a  timid 

voice.  For  all  her  forced  resolution  had  given 
way. 

"  Walk  in,  and  I  will  see.  What  name  do  you 
send  up  ?" 

There  was  a  slight  hesitation. 

M  Tell  her  a  young  girl  wishes  to  speak  to  her." 

The  waiter  looked  at  her  curiously,  and  then 
told  her  to  walk  into  the  parlor,  and  he  would 
see  if  Mrs. was  disengaged. 

In  about  ten  minutes  the  lady  came  down.  What 
passed  between  her  and  the  stranger  is  not  known. 
Their  interview  did  not  last  long.  In  a  little  while 
the  latter  retired  through  the  front  door,  and  was 

i  I 


THE   HEIRESS  O  !> 

again  upon  the  pavement.  It  had  become  dark, 
and  the  wind  swept  coldly  along  the  street.  The 
stranger  shuddered  as  she  felt  its  penetrating  chill, 
The  light  of  the  next  lamp  showed  that  she  was  ;j 

weeping  bitterly.  She  walked  on,  now,  with  a 
quick  pace,  but,  evidently,  without  any  design,  for 
she  had  not  gone  far,  before  she  paused,  and  wring- 
ing her  hands,  murmured  bitterly, 

"  Where  shall  I  go  ?    What  shall  I  do  ?" 

An  elderly  man  passed  at  the  moment.  He  per- 
ceived the  movement,  but  did  not  hear  distinctly 
the  words  that  were  uttered.  Enough,  however, 
was  apparent  to  satisfy  him  that  the  young  woman 
was  in  distress.  He  walked  on  for  a  few  paces, 
and  then  stopped,  turned  around,  and  perceived 
her  still  standing  on  the  pavement.  His  benevo-  ') 

lent  feelings  prompted  him  to  go  and  speak  to  her. 
He  had  advanced  only  a  few  paces,  when,  per- 
ceiving that  she  had  attracted  the  attention  of  a 
man,  who  was  about  to  speak  to  her,  her  heart 
bounded  with  a  sudden  impulse  of  alarm,  and 
starting  away,  she  ran  with  a  fleet  pace  for  nearly 
half  a  square,  not  once  venturing  to  look  back. 

"Poor  frightened  creature!'1  murmured  the  old 
man.  "  I  would  not  harm  a  hair  of  your  head  for 
the  world."  Then  adding  with  a  sigh,  as  he 
resumed  his  walk — 

"  Ah  me !  If  you  are  young,  and  innocent,  and 
friendless,  a  city  like  this  is  a  place  of  great  dan- 
ger. Or,  if  just  stepping  aside  from  virtue's  path, 
with  no  kind  friend  and  counsellor,  your  case  is 
a  hopeless  one.  Thou  that  lovest  the  pure  and 
the  young,  overshadow  her  with  thy  wing!"  Save 
her  from  the  snare  of  the  fowler!" 
A* 


6  THE   HKIttESS 


The  old  man  then  slowly  pursued  his  way.    A 
>  walk  of  some  ten  minutes  brought  him  to  a  laige, 

fine  looking  house,  which  he  entered. 

"  Why  brother!  where  have  you  been  so  late  ?" 
said  a  middle-aged  woman,  in  a  kind,  even  affec- 
tionate manner,  as  he  entered  the  richly  furnished 
parlors,  where  were  assembled  the  family,  consist- 
ing of  the  father  and  mother,  and  two  young 
ladies,  their  daughters,  whose  ages  were  about 
fifteen  and  eighteen. 

"  Here,  Florence,  take  your  uncle's  hat  and 
cane,  and  you,  Ella,  bring  down  his  slippers." 

Neither  of  the  young  ladies  performed  the  little 
service  required  with  the  warmth  of  manner  that 
makes  beautiful  the  devotion  of  the  young  to  the 
j;  aged.     The  uncle  saw  and  felt  this.  [> 

"No — no,"  he  said.    "The  girls  needn't  dis-         I; 
turb  themselves.     I  am  not  tired." 

"Yes,  yes.     Let  them  go;  it  is  a  pleasure  to         ^ 
them,"  interposed  the  mother.    "  But  what  has 
kept  you  out  so  late  ?" 

"Nothing  in  particular.  I  walked  rather  far- 
ther than  usual,  and  so  made  it  late  in  returning." 

"It's  chilly  out;  I  hope  you  havn't  taken  cold, 
brother?" 

"  Me  ?  Oh  no.  I  don't  take  cold  easy.  I'm  not 
made  of  such  tender  stuff  as  your  modern  people. 
I'm  worth,  now,  a  dozen  ordinary  young  men,  and 
expect  to  outlive  most  of  the  present  generation." 

This  was  said  half  in  jest,  half  in  earnest.  It 
was  not  responded  to  in  the  same  playful  spirit, 
although  there  was  an  effort  on  the  part  of  the 
sister  and  her  husband,  to  laugh  at  the  remark. 
The  youngest  of  the  old  man's  nieces  came  in  at 


i 


THE    HEIRESS. 


the  moment  with  his  slippers.  He  looked  at  her 
steadily  for  an  instant,  and  then  said — 

"  Ella,  as  I  came  along,  this  evening,  I  saw  a 
young  girl  about  your  size  and  age,  standing  on 
the  pavement,  actually  wringing  her  hands  in  dis- 
tress. She  murmured,  in  a  plaintive,  almost  des- 
pairing voice,  something  that  I  could  not  hear, 
just  as  I  passed.  1  walked  on  for  a  few  paces, 
and  then,  so  deeply  had  her  manner  impressed 
me,  that  I  turned  back  to  speak  to  her.  But,  the 
moment  she  saw  me  approaching,  she  sprang  away 
s  like  a  frightened  fawn.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her 
face.  It  was  very  young,  and,  I  thought,  very 
beautiful.  There  were  tears  glittering  upon  her 
cheek.  Ella,  dear!  thank  God  that  you  have  a 
home  and  parents  to  love  and  protect  you." 

The  old  man's  voice  trembled.  The  incident 
had,  evidently,  impressed  him  deeply. 

"  Who  could  she  have  been  ?"  said  the  father, 
speaking  with  interest. 

"  Some  one  who  did  not  deserve  either  parents 
or  a  home,"  returned  the  mother  of  Ella,  with 
some  asperity  in  her  tone.  "  Brother's  sympathies 
are  easily  excited." 

"  A  young  girl,  weeping  in  the  street  at  night- 
fall, not  deserve  a  parent's  love  or  a  sheltering 
home  ?  I  have  not  so  learned  my  lesson  in  life, 
Mary.  I  would  give  one  thousand  dollars,  more 
cheerfully  than  I  ever  bestowed  any  thing  in  my 
life,  to  know  where  that  deserted,  lonely,  danger- 
encompassed  girl  is  to  be  found." 

"  You  take  a  strange  interest,  certainly,  in  a 
Gtreet-walking  outcast."  This  was  said  by  his  sister 
M  ith  even  more  asperity  than  her  former  remark. 


B  THE   HE .  RE8S. 

ul  do  not  admit  the  allegation,"  was  the  firm 
reply.  "  I  believe  the  person  I  saw  to  be  innocent, 
but  in  distress.  The  single  glance  I  obtained  of 
her  face,  under  the  glare  of  a  bright  gas  lamp,  was 
enough  to  satisfy  me  of  her  character.  Certainly 
I  do  take  a  deep  interest  in  her,  strange  as  you 
may  call  it — and,  perhaps  it  is  strange.  But  so 
it  is.  As  I  have  just  said — most  cheerfully  would 
\  I  give  one  thousand  dollars  this  night  to  be  able 

to  find  her.  Her  appearance,  her  face,  and  the 
deep  distress  she  evinced,  have  made  upon  my 
mind  an  uneflaceable  impression." 

"  It  is  certainly  a  little  singular,"  remarked  the 
brother-in-law. 

"  So  it  is,"  returned  the  old  man.  "  I  cannot 
myself  understand  why  I  should  feel,  as  I  do,  so 
strongly  drawn  towards  that  poor  girl, — but  the 
fact  is,  as  I  have  said.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  she 
must  be  bone  of  my  bone,  and  flesh  of  my  flesh." 

The  tea  bell  rung,  and  broke  the  chain  of  con- 
versation. It  was  not  resumed  at  table.  Some- 
how or  other  a  feeling  of  restraint  crept  over  each 
member  of  the  family,  which  was  so  strong  as  to 
keep  all  silent  and  thoughtful. 


CHAPTER  II. 

MASON  GRANT  was  a  merchant  engaged  in  an 
extensive  business  with  the  South  and  West.    He 
lived  in  very  handsome  style,  and  was  thought  to          ^ 
be  possessed  of  considerable  wealth.   Of  his  char- 
acter as  a  man,  little  need  be  said.     It  will  be 


THE   HEIRESS.  9 

,;  ^ 

enough  to  remark,  that  he  had  his  share  of  selfish- 
ness, and  that  just  in  the  degree  that  this  prevailed, 
was  he  disregardful  of  all  who  could  not,  in  some 
way  or  other,  minister  to  the  gratification  of  his 
ruling  ends  in  life.  His  wife  was  a  lover  of  the 
world  —  fond  of  effect,  and  desirous  to  be  thought 
a  person  of  consideration.  She  was,  besides  this, 
more  deeply  selfish  than  her  husband  —  so  selfish, 
that  even  her  love  of  fashionable  eclat  was  often 

£         overshadowed  by  it. 

They  had  two  daughters.    In  the   preceding 
chapter,  the  family  of  Mr.  Grant  was  briefly  intro  j; 

'         duced.     The  old  man,  in  whom  the  reader  has 


doubtless  felt  more  interest  than  in  any  of  the  rest, 


is  a  brother  of  Mrs.  Grant,  named  Joseph  Mark- 
land. 

Mr.  Markland  married  at  a  very  early  age,  one 
of  the  most  beautiful,  accomplished,  and  lovely 

;>  women  in  Philadelphia.  She  died  in  three  months. 
He  never  married  again.  At  that  time,  his  sister, 
or  rather  half-sister,  now  Mrs.  Grant,  was  but  a 
child.  A  twin-sister  named  Anna  had  marriH,  a 

§         few  years  previous,  contrary  to  the  wishes  of  her  !> 

friends,  a  young  man  of  excellent  character,  but 
moving  in  a  circle  below  that  of  her  family.  In- 
censed at  her  conduct,  her  father  and  step-mother, 
and  even  her  brother,  treated  her  with  harshness 
and  r.eglect  —  and  absolutely  refused  to  notice  her 
husband  in  any  way.  A  high  spirited  woman,  she 
could  not  brook  this.  Deeply  attached  to  the 
man  she  had  married,  and  justly  so,  she  resented 
as  an  indignity  the  contempt  manifested  for  him. 
and  cut  herself  off  from  all  intercourse  with  her 
family.  She  lived  with  her  husband  in  Philadel- 


10  THE   HEIRESS.  J 

phia  for  some  time,  when  they  removed  to  the 
west.     For  years  her  family  made  no  inquiries 
after  her;  when  they  did  so,  all  efforts  to  find  her 
proved  fruitless.     It  was  ascertained  that  she  had          ;> 
gone  to  Cincinnati.     But  that  was  all  that  could 
be  learned.    After  the  lapse  of  ten  or  fifteen  years,          < 
it  was  generally  conceded  that  she  was  not  living. 
At  the  death  of  her  father,  his  will  directed  the 
investment  of  fifty  thousand  dollars  for  the  benefit 
of  her  children,  should  it  be  found  that  any  were 
living.     At   the    expiration    of  a   certain   period,          ;j 
should  no  issue  be  discovered,  the  property  was 

<;  to  pass  over  to  the  children  of  Mary,  his  second, 

and  only  remaining  daughter.  One  of  the  execu- 
tors under  this  will  was  his  son  Joseph,  and  the 
other,  Mr.  Grant,  the  husband  of  Mary. 

Through  the  influence  of  Grant,  whose  inter- 
ests, or,  at  least  those  of  his  two  daughters,  were 
too  deeply  involved  in  the  peculiar  provisions  of          \ 
his  father-in-law's  will,  no  advertisement  for  the 
children  of  Anna  had  been  made,  although  old          .'; 
Mr.  Markland  had  been  dead  for  a  number  of 
years.   The  management  of  the  estate  of  his  father 
had  been  left  pretty  much  in  the  hands  of  Mr.          ? 

!>  Grant,  by  Joseph  Markland,  the  co-executor,  whose          \ 

advanced  age  made  him  willing  to  be  freed  as 
much  as  possible  from  the  cares  of  business.  His 

\  own  fortune,  accumulated  by  trade,  was  very  large. 

It  is  true,  that  he  had  frequently  urged  upon  his 
brother-in-law  the  propriety  of  advertising  for  the          't 
children  of  Anna,  and  the  latter  had  as  often  prom- 
ised that  he  would  do  so  forthwith.     But  still  the 
public  notice  had  not  appeared. 

After  tea,  Mr.  Grant,  his  wife,  and  Mr.  Markland 


THE  HEIRESS.  1] 

were  alone,  the  girls  having  something  to  employ 
tnem  in  their  own  rooms.  But  few  words  passed 
between  them,  for  none  seemed  inclined  to  talk. 
Mrs.  Grant,  especially,  was  very  thoughtful.  Some- 
thing seemed  to  press  upon  and  disturb  her  mind. 
Her  brother  was  likewise  in  an  absent  mood. 
Both  sat  musing,  with  their  eyes  upon  the  floor, 
while  Mr.  Grant  occupied  himself  with  a  book. 
This  had  continued  for  nearly  an  hour,  during 
which  time  not  a  word  had  been  spoken.  At  the 
end  of  this  period,  Mr.  Marklaud  said,  looking 
toward  his  brother-in-law, 

"  I  believe,  Mason,  there  has  been  no  advertise- 
ment yet  made  for  Anna's  children." 

Mrs.  Grant  started  at  this,  while  the  blood  rose 
quickly  to  her  face.  She  turned  herself  partly 
away  from  the  light,  to  conceal  the  effect  of  her 
brother's  unexpected  remark. 

"  No,  that  is  true.  I  have  neglected  to  attend  to 
it.  But  it  shall  be  done,"  replied  Mr.  Grant. 

"  So  you  have  been  saying  for  the  last  fourteen 
years,  and  only  a  year  remains  for  their  discovery, 
should  my  sister  have  left  any  children.  I  am  to 
blame  for  not  having  seen  to  this  myself.  I  don't 
know  what  I  could  have  been  thinking  about.  It 
must  be  done  at  once,  Mason." 

"  So  it  can.  There  need  be  no  trouble  about  the 
matter.  I  will  attend  to  it." 

"  Let  it  be  done,  then,  to-morrow." 

"You  are  very  much  concerned  all  at  once, 
brother,"  remarked  Mrs.  Grant,  who  had  regained 
her  self-possession.  "  No  one  has  believed,  for 
the  last  twenty-five  years,  that  Anna,  or  any  one 
belonging  to  her  was  living.  As  to  advertising,  it 


"Nonsense!    You   are    always   getting   some 


notion  or  other  into  your  head." 
_,..  "Mary,"  and  her  brother  looked  at  her  half 
sternly  as  he  spoke,  "  would  you  be  willing  to  see 
your  children  unjustly  possessed  of  the  property 
willed  to  those  of  your  sister?" 

"Joseph,  you  don't  know  what  you  are  talking 
about." 

u  You  may  think  so." 

A  dead  silence  followed.  Mr.  Grant  looked 
thoughtful,  and  his  wife  worried  and  perplexed, 
while  the  old  gentleman  fell  into  a  state  of  deep 


12  THE    HEIRESS. 

• .  * 

is  the  merest  formality  that  can  be  imagined.  I 
don't  see  what  can  have  put  it  into  your  head  all 
at  once." 

"  It  is  a  simple  duty  that  ought  to  have  been 
done  many,  many  years  ago,"  quietly  replied  Mr. 
Markland.  "There  yet  remains  a  short  time  in 
which  that  duty  can  be  performed,  and  the  sooner 
it  is  now  done  the  better. 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  the  thing  is  easily  enough  done. 
I  will  attend  to  it,"  said  Mr.  Grant. 
;•  "  It  is  too  easily  done,"  returned  the  old  man 

"  and  that  is  why  it  has  been  neglected  for  so  long 
a  time.  I  can  see  to  it  just  as  well  as  not."  s 

"  You  don't  believe  that  Anna  or  any  of  her 
children,  if  ever  she  had  any,  are  living  ?"  As 
Mrs.  Grant  asked  her  brother  this  question,  she 
looked  him  steadily  in  the  face. 

"  It  is  not  impossible,"  he  replied.  "  Nor  im- 
probable either.  Indeed,  I  should  'nt  at  all  wonder 
if  both  she  and  her  children  were  alive.  How- 
ever, be  that  as  it  may,  1  am  going  to  do  my  part 
towards  ascertaining  the  fact." 


THE    HEIRESS.  19 


J 

abstraction.  In  the  mind  of  the  latter  arose  iniages 
of  the  past.  His  twin-sister  was  before  him — his 
sister  that  he  had  so  deeply  loved  in  early  life, 
and,  at  a  later  day,  so  shamefully  neglected  and 
wronged.  In  a  little  while  he  arose  and  retired 

s  to  his  own  apartment.  Closing  the  door  after  him 
and  turning  the  key,  he  went  to  a  closet  and 
unlocking  an  old  chest  that  stood  in  one  torner, 

j  took  therefrom  a  small  box,  and  placed  it  upon  a 
table.  A  bunch  of  keys  was  then  taken  from  a 
drawer,  one  of  these  opened  the  box.  A  faint  sigh 
heaved  the  bosom  of  the  old  man,  as  he  raised 
the  lid.  The  contents  were  various,  and  from 
their  character,  evidently  tokens  of  remembrance. 


There  was  an  old  fashioned  gold  locket,  enclosing 
the  hair  of  some  friend  or  relative.  A  diamond  \ 

ring — a  brooch  of  gold — a  watch  and  chain,  and 
many  other  things  of  a  like  character.  These 
were  lifted  out,  but  not  regarded.  The  old  man 
sought  for  something  else.  At  length  his  hand 
brought  forth  a  small  morocco  case  which  he 
opened  quickly.  It  contained  the  miniature  of  a  \ 

young  and  beautiful  woman,  upon  which  his  eyes  ;>' 

were  instantly  fastened  with  an  earnest  gaze,  while 
liis  breast  heaved  more  freely,  and  his  respiration 
quickened.  Suddenly  he  raised  his  eyes  towards 
the  ceiling,  fixed  them  a  moment,  and  then  mur- 
mured, 

"Strange!   How  like!    How  very  like!" 
In  this  attitude  he  remained  for  many  minutes, 
when  he  again  referred  to  the  miniature  he  held  •; 

in  his  hand,  and  gazed  upon  it  intently,  until  his 
eyes  grew  so  dim  with  moisture  that  he  could  see 
nothing  but  a  faint  outline  before  him.    All  the 
B 

j 


s 

14  THE    HEIRESS. 

past,  with  its  memories,  had  arisen.  Early  years 
had  come  back.  Early  affections  were  rekindled. 
The  loved  and  lost  were  around  him.  But,  it  was 
all  a  dream.  And,  a  consciousness  of  this,  even 
in  the  vision,  pressed  upon  his  spirit  with  a  most 
touching  sadness. 

It  was  nearly  an  hour,  before,  with  a  heavy 
sigh,  the  old  man  closed  the  box  and  returned  it 
to  the  place  from  whence  it  had  been  removed. 
But  the  miniature  he  retained,  though  he  did  not 
again  look  at  it. 

The  occurrences  of  the  evening  had  disturbed 
his  mind  a  good  deal,  for  he  walked  the  floor 
rather  quickly  a  very  long  time  before  retiring  to 
bed.  And  it  was  an  hour  after  he  had  done  so, 
before  sleep  stole  over  his  senses. 


CHAPTER  III 

"JUSTICE  —  simple  justice  —  Mary,  requires  that 
it  be  done  at  once,"  said  Mr.  Markland,  as  he 
pushed  his  chair  back  from  the  breakfast  table,  on 
the  next  morning,  rather  impatiently.  Mr.  Grant 
had  left  a  few  minutes  before  ;  as  he  arose  to  go 
out,  his  brother-in-law  had  called  his  attention  to 
the  executor's  advertisement,  about  which  they 
had  been  speaking  on  the  previous  evening.  This 
had  elicited  some  remarks  from  Mrs.  Grant  similar 
to  those  already  made,  which  Mr.  Markland  re- 
plied to  in  the  above  words. 

u  But  what  manner  of  use  is  there  in  it,  brother  ?" 


THE    HEIRESS.  Id 

"  What  manner  of  objection  can  there  be  to  it, 
Mary  ?» 

tt  A  very  serious  one.  I  have  scarcely  slept  a 
wink  all  night  for  thinking  about  it.  I  don't  see 
what  on  earth  has  led  you  to  conjure  up  this 
matter,  that  has  been  sleeping  quietly  for  years." 

"  But  name  ihis  serious  objection,  Mary." 

"  To  advertise  for  Anna's  children  will  only  be 
to  call  the  attention  of  every  one  to  our  family, 
and  cause  the  stigma  yoar  sister's  conduct  fixed 
upon  us  years  ago,  to  be  seen  again  in  glowing 
colors.  Now,  the  public  have  forgotten  her,  and 
her  lapse  from  respectability,  and  we  no  longer 
suffer  from  her  folly." 

«  Nonsense !" 

"  You  can  say  so,  if  you  choose,  brother  ;  but, 
as  I  view  it,  it  is  a  very  serious  matter.  I  wouldn't, 
for  the  world,  have  that  whole  thing  called  up  again. 
It  will  be  in  every  one's  mouth,  exaggerated  in  a 
thousand  ways  before  a  week  goes  by." 

"  Suppose  it  is  ?" 

"  Am  I  not  a  mother  ?  Have  I  not  two  daugh- 
ters just  coming  out  ?" 

Mrs.  Grant's  voice  broke  down ;  covering  her 
face  with  her  hands,  she  sobbed  aloud. 

The  effect  of  this  upon  old  Mr.  Markland  was 
to  cause  him  to  turn  quickly  away,  and  leave  the 
breakfast  room,  and,  in  a  little  while,  the  house. 
In  about  fifteen  minutes  he  entered  the  counting- 
room  of  Mr.  Grant.  The  merchant  seemed  very 
much  engaged  over  some  letters  received  by  the 
morning's  mail,  merely  nodding  to  Mr.  Markland 
as  he  came  in,  and  then  resuming  his  employment 
of  reading  them. 


16  THE   HEIRESS. 

The  old  man  took  up  a  newspaper,  which  oc- 
cupied him  for  nearly  an  hour,  when  he  laid  ii 
down,  and  glanced  toward  Mr.  Grant.  The  latter 
was  still  very  much  engaged.  Markland  got  up, 
and  with  his  hands  behind  him,  walked  the  floor 
of  the  counting-room  for  about  twenty  minutes. 
Still  the  merchant  was  as  much  occupied  as  ever. 
Not  wishing  to  interrupt  him  in  his  business,  the 
old  man,  who  wanted  to  have  the  executor's  ad- 
vertisement prepared  at  once,  and  who  had  called 
|!  in  for  the  express  purpose  of  having  it  done,  left  the 

counting-room,  with  the  intention  of  walking  for 
half  an  hour  or  so,  and  then  returning.  As  soon 
as  he  had  gone  out,  Mr.  Grant  left  the  desk  at 
which  he  had  seemed  so  much  engaged,  and  mut- 
tering something  in  an  impatient  tone,  went  out 
into  the  store,  and  gave  sundry  directions  to  his 
clerks  and  salesmen.  He  then  returned  to  the 
counting-room,  and  filling  up  three  or  four  checks, 
to  meet  notes  falling  due  that  day,  handed  them  to 
one  of  his  clerks,  and  said, — 

"  If  Mr.  Markland  comes  in,  and  asks  for  me, 
say  to  him  that  I  have  gone  to  auction,  and  shall 
not  be  back  before  dinner  time." 

He  then  went  away.  Half  an  hour  after,  Mr. 
Markland  returned,  and  received,  in  answer  to  his 
enquiry  for  Mr.  Grant,  the  information  that  he  had 
gone  to  auction,  and  would  be  out  all  the  morning. 

"  Humph  !"  ejaculated  the  old  man.  He  paused, 
with  his  finger  to  his  lip,  for  some  moments ;  then 
turning  away,  he  left  the  store.  On  the  street,  he 
walked  with  the  air  of  a  man  seeking  to  discover 
some  one.  His  steps  were  slow,  but  his  eyes 
were  all  about  him.  He  walked  up  Chestnut  street 


THE    HEIRESS.  17 

to  Sixth,  and  then  bent  his  steps  north.  Iix  this 
direction  he  continued  until  he  reached  Spring 
Garden  District,  through  many  of  the  streets  of 
which  he  pursued  his  way.  Apparently  disap- 
pointed in  something,  he  went  on  toward  the 
Northern  Liberties,  and  walked  there  for  nearly 

s'          an  hour. 

By  this  time  it  was  nearly  one  o'clock.  Feeling 
much  fatigued,  Mr.  Markland  went  down  as  far  as 
Second  street,  and  took  an  omnibus  on  the  way  to 

;;  the  Exchange.  He  had  ridden  for  several  squares, 
and  was  just  passing  Vine  street,  when,  glancing 
back  through  the  door  of  the  omnibus,  he  saw,  at 
some  little  distance,  a  young  woman,  walking  in 
the  opposite  direction,  whose  figure  and  dress  were 
so  similar  to  those  of  the  individual  he  had  seen 
on  the  night  before,  that  he  was  sure  it  must  be 

I-  the  same  person.  As  soon  as  possible  the  vehicle 
was  stopped,  and  Mr.  Markland  was  again  upon  the 
pavement.  Though  well  advanced  in  years,  he 
was  active  for  an  old  man,  and  could  walk  at  a  very 
quick  pace.  His  eye  still  rested  upon  the  form  that 
attracted  his  attention,  as  he  gained  the  side  walk. 
"  It  is  the  very  same,"  he  said,  half  aloud,  as 
he  started  in  pursuit ;  but  the  girl  walked  with  a 
rapid  step,  and  he  seemed  scarcely  to  gain  upon 
her  at  all.  He  was  still  some  distance  behind, 
when  she  reached  Callowhill  street,  and  turned  up. 
Markland  quickened  his  pace  almost  into  a  run ; 
he  soon  gained  the  corner,  but  the  girl  was  no 
where  to  be  seen.  Disappointed,  he  stopped  with 
his  heart  beating  more  rapidly  than  it  had  beaten 
for  years,  Why  was  it  so  ?  He  could  not  tell ; 
the  strange  interest  he  felt  in  the  young  girl  who 
•  1 


18  THE    HEIRESS. 

had  a  second  time  eluded  him,  was,  to  him,  unac- 
countable. 

"  Shall  I  give  her  up  so  ?"  he  asked  himself,  as 
he  stood  irresolute ;  after  a  pause,  he  answered, 

"No! — no!  I  must  see  her,  and  know  who 
she  is.  She  must  be  somewhere  close  by ;  some- 
£  where  within  half  a  block  of  the  spot  on  which  I 

now  stand,  and  surrounded  by  circumstances  that 
may  require  the  instant  interposition  of  a  friend. 
Yes — she  needs  a  friend  !  A  young  girl,  innocent 
to  all  appearance,  weeping  alone  in  the  streets  of 
a  large  city  at  nightfall,  needs  a  friend ;  and  she 
shall  have  one  if  Joseph  Markland  can  find  her." 

Saying  this,  the  old  man  walked  up  Callowhill 
street,  looking  intently  at  every  house,  and  trying 
to  make  up  his  mind,  from  the  appearance  of  the 
different  dwellings,  which  of  them  most  probably 
contained  the  individual  of  whom  he  was  in  search. 
At  length  he  stopped  before  one  that,  somehow  or 
other,  seemed  to  him  most  likely  to  reward  with 
success  his  search.  Knocking  at  the  door,  he 
awaited  anxiously  an  answer  to  the  summons. 
In  a  few  moments  it  was  opened  by  an  old  woman, 
with  a  sharp,  wrinkled  face,  from  which  looked 
out  a  pair  of  small,  glittering,  black  eyes.  Her 
skin  was  dark  and  dirty — her  dress  soiled  and  in 
disorder. 

"  Well,  sir?"  was  the  salutation  with  which  she 
met  old  Mr.  Markland,  looking  at  him,  as  she 
ppoke,  with  a  kind  of  defiance  in  her  manner. 
Something  in  his  appearance  did  not  seem  to  please 
her. 

tt  Did  not  a  young  woman  enter  here  a  minut* 
or  two  ago  ?"  he  asked. 


THE    HEIRESS.  19 

"  No,  sir ;"  and  the  door  was  instantly  shut  in 
his  face. 

"  Humph !  She  is  here  no  doubt ;  but  if  in  the 
keeping  of  that  old  hag,  it  is  the  lamb  seeking 
shelter  of  the  wolf." 

This  was  said  by  Markland  as  he  slowly  turned 
from  the  closed  door,  and  walked  away,  disap-  "> 

pointed,  and  undetermined  what  to  do. 

"  And  yet  she  may  not  be  there,"  he  added,  in 
a  slightly  changed  voice,  pausing,  and  letting  his 
eye  run  over  several  houses  near  by ;  another  was  s> 

selected  and  at  this  he  knocked.  The  application 
was  answered  by  a  young  woman,  to  whom  he 
put  the  question — 

u  Did  a  young  girl  enter  here,  a  little  while  ago  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  was  the  reply,  with  a  look  of  sur- 
prise. 

"  Can  I  see  her  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  walk  in."  This  was  said  after  a 
slight  hesitation. 

"  Do  you  know  who  she  is  ?" 

"  O  yes ;  the  is  my  sister." 

"Your  sister!"  with  surprise  and  disappoint- 
ment. 

"Yes,  sir;  have  you  any  thing  particular  to 
sav  to  her  ?"  The  young  woman  paused  as  she 
asked  this  question,  and  looked  into  the  old  gentle- 
man's face  more  intently.  They  had  already  en- 
tered the  passage. 

"  I  should  at  least  like  to  see  her ;  she  may  or 
sh?  may  not  be  the  one  of  whom  I  am  in  search." 

"  I  should  think  she  was  not.  But  walk  into 
the  parlor,  sir,  and  I  will  call  her  down." 

In  a  lew  minutes  light  feet  were  heard  descend- 

!  1 


20  THE    HEIRESS. 

ing  the  stairs.  Then  a  young  girl,  not  over  six- 
teen, entered ;  Mr.  Markland  rose,  and  looked  her 
earnestly  in  the  face ;  then  recollecting  himself, 
he  said — 

"  Pardon  the  seeming  rudeness  of  an  old  man ; 
did  I  not  see  you  going  along  Second  street  a  little 
<  while  ago  ?"  '/ 

The  girl  shrunk  back  at  the  manner  and  ques- 
tion of  Markland,  while  her  face  became  suffused. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  she  said,  "  but  why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  Did  I  not  see  you  last  evening,  about  night- 
fall, in  Seventh  street,  near  Washington  Square, 
standing  alone  near  a  lamp  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  was  the  prompt  and  indignant  reply 

"Then  pardon  me;  I  have  been  mistaken," 
returned  the  old  man,  in  a  disappointed  tone. 

No  reply  was  made  by  the  astonished  girl,  nor  • 
was  even  the  low,  respectful  bow  of  Mr.  Markland 
returned,  as  he   gained   the  passage  and   retired 
through  the  door. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

j  •,' 

As  Mr.  Markland  left  the  house  he  had  entered 
so  abruptly,  a  young  woman  stood  at  the  window 
of  a  humble  tenement  opposite.  His  eye  did  not 
fall  upon  her,  but  she  started  back  as  she  saw  him 
step  forth  upon  the  pavement,  saying,  as  she  did 
so,  to  an  elderly  woman,  who  sat  near — 

"  There  !  that  is  the  very  man  of  whom  I  told 
you.  Driven  with  angry  words  from  the  presence 
of  my  aunt,  as  an  imposter,  I  stood  weeping  oc 


\ 

THE    HEIRESS.  21 

„ 

the  pavement,  when  he  passed  me.  Something  in 
my  appearance  attracted  his  attention ;  for  he 
paused,  looked  at  me  for  a  moment,  and  then  was 
approaching,  when,  frightened  at  the  thought  of 
being  addressed  by  a  man  and  a  stranger  in  the 
street,  I  ran  away  as  swiftly  as  my  feet  would 
carry  me." 

The  individual  addressed  by  the  young  gin 
arose,  and  stepped  to  the  window. 

"  Where  is  he  ?"  she  asked. 

"  That  is  the  old  man,  across  the  street.  He 
seems  looking  for  some  one ;  he  came  out  of  the 
house  opposite." 

"  Ah  !  who  can  he  be  ?  There,  he  has  stopped, 
and  is  looking  all  around  him  and  up  at  the  dif- 
ferent windows." 

As  this  was  said,  the  younger  of  the  two  step- 
ped back  instinctively. 

"  I  wonder  for  whom  he  is  looking.  I  will 
step  to  the  door.  Perhaps  I  can  direct  him." 

"  No — no — please  don't,"  was  quickly  said  by 
the  maiden,  as  she  laid  her  hand  upon  the  arm  of 
her  elder  companion. 

"Why  not?" 

"  He  may  be  looking  for  me." 

"  Why  for  you  ?"  This  was  said  with  a  glance 
of  inquiry,  so  earnest,  that  the  blood  mounted  to 
the  young  girl's  face. 

"  You  know  I  have  just  come  in." 

"  Yes." 

"  Perhaps  he  saw  me  in  the  street,  and  remem- 
bering me  from  the  glance  he  had  of  my  face  last 
night,  has  sought  to  discover  my  place  of  abode." 
j  > 


,' 

22  THE    HEIRESS. 

* 

f  No  reply  was  made  to  this,  other  than  a  long, 

searching  look   into  the  maiden's  face — a  look 
that  had  in  it  something  of  suspicion.     The  effect 
produced  was  a  gush  of  tears. 
<;  "  Anna,  child,  what  distresses  you  ?" 

This  was  asked  in  a   voice   of  kindness   and          \ 
sympathy,  that  seemed  to  say — "  Forgive  me  if  I 
have  wronged  you  by  suspicion." 

The  girl  retired  from  the  window,  without  re- 
plying, and  sinking  into  a  chair,  covered  her  face 
ff  with  her  hands,  and  continued  to  weep  bitterly.  ? 

The  room  in  which  were  the  two  individuals 
last  introduced,  was  a  small  front  parlor,  or  sitting 
£  room,  in  a  small  house  situated  in  Callowhill  street. 

The  furniture  was  poor  and  scanty,  consisting  mere- 
ly ly  of  a  small  old-fashioned  mahagony  table,  placed          ;! 
under  a  looking  glass  with  a  frame  as  old-fashioned 
as  itself — four  wood-seat  chairs  much  worn — a 
rag  carpet — a  shovel  and  pair  of  tongs  beside  the 
s            fire  place,  where  a  few  sticks  of  wood  were  burning 
—with  a  few  other  trifling   articles   needless  to 
I;            mention.     But  every  thing  was  in  order,  and  fault- 
lessly clean.     The  elderly  female  who  occupied 
this  room  was  neat  in  her  person,  although  her 
garments  were   of  common   material.     Her  face         <; 
was  mild  and  benevolent,  and  her  voice,  when  she 
spoke  to  her  younger  companion,  gentle,  yet  firm. 
No  one,  at  a  first  glance,  could  fail  to   discover 
that  she  possessed  a  good  heart,  and  had,  with  it, 
good  sense  and  discrimination.  \ 

She  did  not  speak  to  the  weeping  girl  for  some 
minutes,  during  which  time  she  stood  thoughtful, 
sometimes  with  her  eyes  upon  the  floor,  and  some- 

!  i 


THE    HEIRESS.  23 


times  with  them  resti  ig  on  her  young  companion. 
At  length  she  went  up  to  her,  and  placing  her 
hand  upon  her  shoulder,  said — 

"  Anna,  you  are  aware  that  it  is  not  two  days 
since  I  first  knew  you.  That  we  met  under  very 
singular  circumstances,  and  that  it  is  but  right  for 
me  to  be  well  satisfied  in  regard  to  you,  before  I 
give  you  my  entire  confidence.  Lay  aside  all 
weakness,  and  think  soberly  and  rationally.  Be 
a  woman,  even  if  you  are  very  young,  for,  here- 

fi  after,  in  life,  you  will  have  to  act  a  woman's  part, 
if  all  you  have  told  me  be  true,  which  I  cannot 
really  doubt,  although  your  story  is  a  strange  one. 
Think  how  much  falsehood  and  imposture  there 
is  in  the  world,  and  how  necessary  it  is  for  me 
and  every  one  else  to  be  fully  on  our  guard.  If 
you  thus  reflect,  you  will  not  be  too  deeply  pained 
should  I  observe  you  closely,  and  notice  every 
look,  and  tone  and  word.  Your  innocence  will 
only  become  the  more  apparent,  and  my  regard 
for  you  and  confidence  in  you  stronger.  I  am 
thus  frank,  in  the  outset,  because  I  see  that  you 

s  are  too  sensitive  for  one  in  the  condition  you  re- 
present yourself  to  be  in.  You  will  meet  with 
much,  very  much  to  wound  you  sharply,  unless 
you  rise  above  mere  natural  feeling,  into  reason, 
and  act  from  its  plain  dictates.  From  my  suspi- 
cions, if  you  are  all  that  you  say  you  are,  you 
have  nothing  to  fear.  I  will  be  your  friend,  and 
the  little  I  have  you  shall  be  welcome  to  share. 
You  shall  fill  for  me  the  place  made  vacant  by 

the " 

The  woman's  voice  faltered,  and  she  became 
silent  The  girl  looked  up  into  her  face,  and 

j  \ 


24  THE    HEIRESS. 

even  though  half-blinded  by  tears,  she  could  see 
its  muscles  convulsed  by  strong  emotion.  This 
quickly  subsided,  and  her  new  found  friena  re- 
sumed. ',; 

"  You  shall  fill  for  me  the  place  of  one  that  ) 
wish  it  were  in  my  power  to  forget.  Of  one  who 
left  her  mother's  side  and  wandered  away  into 
strange  and  forbi  iden  paths.  But  no — even  if  you  <; 
take  her  place,  it  will  only  be  for  a  time,  and 
then  I  shall  lose  you  as  I  lost  her — No !  no  !  not 
as  I  lost  her.  God  forbid !  But  your  friends,  I 
trust, — those  who  have  a  natural  right  to  claim 
you, — will  come  forward  in  time.  They  cannot 
turn  from  you  ever  thus  coldly  and  cruelly.  Na- 
ture will  and  must  speak,  and  its  voice  be  heard." 

Anna's  tears  were  by  this  time  dried.     Looking 
with  a  glance  of  confidence  and  new-born  affection 
into  the  face   of  the  woman  who  had   dealt  so         '; 
plainly  with  her,  she  merely  said — 

"Time,  I  trust,  will  give  you  to  know  that  your 
good  feelings  have  not  been  wasted." 

"  I  feel  sure  that  it  will,  Anna.     Forgive  me,  if 
a  momentary  doubt  stole  over  my  mind.     Truth,         ',; 
it  is  said,  is  stranger  than  fiction.     And  I  believe 
i/.     All  that  you  have  related  of  yourself — of  what 
has  befallen  you  since  you  came  to   this  city —          1; 
might  easily  occur,  and  it,  doubtless,  has  occur- 
red.    Life  is  a  theatre  on  whose  stage  strange  be- 
wildering events  are  ever  transpiring.     I  have  seen         ;; 
enough  to  make  me  feel  but  little  surprise  at  any 
new  change  of  scenes.  | 

Mrs.  Grand,  the  name  of  the  woman  who  here 
appears  as  the  protector  of  a  friendless  girl,  re- 
sumed the  chair  from  which  she  had  risen  when 

s  ;' 


THE    HEIRESS.  25 

Anna  called  her  attention  to  old  Mr.  Markland, 
and  taken  up  some  work  that  had  been  laid  down, 
commenced  sewing  upon  it.  Anna  followed  her 
example,  after  she  had  retired  for  a  few  minutes 
to  wash  away  the  marks  of  tears  from  her  face. 
But  the  heart  of  the  young  girl  was  too  full.  She 
had  not  bent  over  her  work  many  minutes,  before 
the  tears  were  blinding  her  and  dropping  upon  the-  \ 
hand  that  in  vain  tried  to  direct  her  needle.  Mrs. 
ft  Grand  saw  this. 

"  Anna,  child,"  she  said,  soothingly.  "  It  is 
vain  to  give  up  so  to  your  feelings.  But,  if  you 
cannot  yet  control  them,  put  by  your  work,  and 
go  up  into  the  chamber.  Perhaps  an  hour  alone 
may  restore  your  mind  to  a  calmer  state." 

"No,  ma'am,"  was  replied.  "I  do  not  wish 
to  be  alone.  I  would  rather  sit  with  you  and 
sew.  I  will  try  to  control  myself.  Though  it  is 
very  hard,  indeed,  to  think  of  my  mother,  whom  I  so 
dearly  loved,  and  of  my  present  condition,  and  yet 
be  pe-fectly  unmoved.  Why  am  1  not  with  her? 
Why  v'as  I  left  when  she  was  taken  away  !" 

Tea  s  now  flowed  freely  over  Anna's  face.    Her 

£         words  seemed  to  trouble  Mrs.  Grand,  who,  letting 

her  work  fall  into  her  lap,  drew  her  chair  close  to 

that  of  the  weeping  girl.     Taking  her  hand,  she 

-;         said, — 

"  My  child,  be  sure  of  one  thing,  that,  to  mur 
mur  at  events  over  which  we  have  no  control,  is 
to  do  wrong.  There  is  One  who  governs  and 
guides  in  all  the  affairs  of  life  for  His  creature's 
good,  with  unerring  wisdom.  Without  Him,  not 
a  sparrow  falls  to  the  ground.  He  numbers  the 
very  hairs  of  our  heads.  His  love  is  ever  seeking 

i .....  .        j 


26  THE    HEIRESS.  [j 

to  confer  benefits.  No  event  takes  place  withou 
his  permission,  and,  however  seemingly  evil  an 
occurrence  may  be,  He  surely  over-rules  it  for 
good.  This  separation  that  so  deeply  distresses 
you,  is  no  accidental  thing — nor  has  it  taken  place 
through  an  evil  agency.  The  hand  of  a  wise  and  < 
merciful  God  is  in  it,  and  it  will  be  better  for  you 
in  the  end  that  you  have  been  so  sorely  afflicted."  ;J 

"  O  no — no  !     It  cannot  be  a  blessing  to  lose          /, 
mv  mother,  Mrs.  Grand ;  my  mother,  who  knew 
me  better  than  any,  and  loved  me  better  than  I 
shall  ever  again  be  loved.     It  is  not  good  for  a 
young  girl  like  me  to  lose  her  mother." 

"  And  yet,  your's  has  died ;    has   God   done 
wrong  to  take  her  ?"  j; 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"  Anna,  you  have  been  taught  to  know  that  God         ;> 
in  heaven  is  our  best  friend  ?     Is  He  to  whom  we 
are  indebted  for  all  the  good  gifts  of  life  ?" 

No  reply  was  made  to  this.  ;> 

"  You  have  read  a  great  deal  in  your  Bible  ?"  1> 

Anna  was  silent  for  a  time,  and  then  murmured 
— "  Not  a  great  deal." 

"Then  you  must  learn  to  read  it  very  often; 
it  will  lift  up  your  thoughts  out  of  yourself,  and 
cause  them  to  dwell  in  a  calmer  region.     It  will 
teach  you  confidence  in  God,  and  enable  you  to 
'•  see  that  He  not  only  doeth  all  things  for  you,  but 


doeth  all  things  well.  Would  it  not  produce  an 
entire  change  in  your  state  of  mind,  if  you  could 
really  believe  that  your  mother's  death  was  the 
best  thing  that  could  have  happened  to  you." 

"  Oh,  but  that  cannot  be ;  it  cannot  be  best  for 
a  young  creature  like  me  to  lose  her  mother ;  how 


THE   HEIRESS.  27 

can  it  be,  Mrs.  Grand  ?  Oh,  no — no  !  do  not  try 
to  make  me  believe  that ;  my  dear,  dear  mother ! 
oh,  that  I  haa  died  with  you  !" 

Convulsive  sobs  followed  this  expression  of  her 
< .  feelings ;  deeply  touched  by  her  grief,  Mrs.  Grand 
drew  the  head  of  the  weeping  girl  down  upon  her 
bosom,  and  more  by  affectionate  caresses  than 
words  tried  to  sooth  her  troubled  spirit  into  quiet- 
ness. She  lay  thus  almost  motionless  for  nearly 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  she  gently  disengaged 
herself  from  the  arm  that  was  thrown  around  her, 
and  rising  up,  retired  with  her  hand  partly  shad- 
ing her  face,  to  her  chamber. 


CHAPTER  V. 

ABOUT  one  year  previous  to  the  opening  of  our 
story,  on  a  stormy  night  in  November,  Doctor 
Milnor,  a  physician  of  some  eminence,  residing  in 
Nashville,  Tennessee,  who  had  drawn  up  before 
a  comfortable  fire,  in  the  midst  of  his  family,  was 
told  that  a  young  girl  wanted  to  see  him  in  his 
office. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  you  won't  have  to  go  out,  father," 


said  a  bright-eyed  little  maiden,  not  over  twelve, 


;>          tt  you  hardly  ever  spend  a  whole  evening  with  us." 
"  And  it  storms  so,"  added  a  younger  child, 

looking  serious. 

"  If  you  should  not  have  a  very  urgent  call,  put 

off  the  visit  until  to-morrow  morning,"  remarked 

Mrs.  Milnor. 

"  O  yes,  do,  father,'"  said  one  of  the  children 


28  THE    HEIRESS. 

"  I'll  tell  you  all  what  I  will  do,"  returned  the 
doctor,  smiling  as  he  arose,  "  after  I  have  seen  by 
whom  and  for  what  I  am  wanted." 

Dr.  Milnor  left  the  room  and  went  into  his 
office.  There  he  found  a  slender,  timid-looking 
girl,  who  seemed  not  over  fifteen  or  sixteen  years 
of  age.  She  arose  from  a  chair  as  he  entered ;  and, 
as  she  did  so,  turned  her  face  to  the  light,  and  he 
saw  that  her  features  were  soft  and  delicate,  and  that 
her  face  was  pale,  and  its  expression  anxious.  He 
did  not  remember  that  he  had  ever  met  her  before. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  the  kind  physician  said,  in  a 
mild,  encouraging  voice,  "  do  you  wish  to  see  me 
for  any  thing  very  particular?" 

The  stranger  hesitated  a  moment,  and  said, 
timidly, 


"  My  father  is  very  sick." 


And  then  looked  earnestly  in  his  face,  as  if  half 
'<  afraid  to  prefer  a  request  that  he  would  visit  him. 

"Who  is  your  father?" 

"  Mr.  Gray." 

"  Where  does  he  live  ?" 

"  In street,  not  far  from  here." 

"  Mr.  Gray  ?  I  don't  remember  him.  But,  is 
there  any  thing  serious  the  matter  ?  How  long  has 
he  been  sick  ?" 

"  He  hasn't  been  well  for  a  great  while.  But 
he  has  been  so  much  worse  for  a  week  past,  that 
mother  is  afraid,  unless  something  is  done  for  him, 
that  he  will  not " 

The  girl's  voice  trembled,  so  that  she  did  not 
venture  to  utter  the  word  that  was  on  her  tongue. 

"  Don't  you  know  the  nature  of  the  disease  of 
which  he  is  suffering  ?" 


THE    HEIRESS.  29 

"He  has  a  bad  cough,  and  gets  thinner,  and 
paler,  and  weaker  every  day."  / 

"  Is  he  much  worse,  just  now  ?" 

"  O  yes,  sir.    A  great  deal  worse." 

"  Worse  since  when  ?" 

"  Since  yesterday.  He  got  very  wet  in  the  rain, 
and  has  had  fever  and  pains  all  over  him.  To- 
night he  coughs  all  the  while,  and  can  hardly  get 
his  breath.  You  will  come  to  see  him,  doctor,  to- 
night, won't  you  ?" 

A  man  even  less  feeling  and  less  conscientious 
in  the  discharge  of  his  duty  than  Dr.  Milnor,  could 
not  have  hesitated  a  moment  to  comply  with  the 
almost  imploring  request  of  that  young  girl  to  visit  i 

her  father.  <  f 

"  Yes,  I  will  go  with  you  at  once,"  he  replied 
u  Sit  down  for  a  few  moments,  until  I  get  myseh 
ready." 

"You  won't  have  to  go  out  to-night,  father?" 
said  Mrs.  Milnor,  looking  up  into  her  husband's 
face,  as  he  entered  the  family  sitting-room,  bright 
with  happy  countenances.  The  children's  faces  all 
expressed  their  hope  that  he  would  not  be  obliged 
to  leave  them.  j; 

"  Yes,"  he  replied.  "  Duty  calls  me,  and  I  must 
go." 

"  But  is  the  call  an  urgent  one  ?  The  night  is 
cold  and  stormy." 

u  Not  too  cold  nor  stormy  to  prevent  a  poor 
young  girl  from  braving  the  rain  and  wind  for  the 
sake  of  her  sick  father." 

"  Who  is  she  ?"  asked  one  of  the  children,  hei 
sympathies  at  once  aroused. 

"  1  do  not  know.    But  she  has  a  sweet  young  j 

c2 


30  THE    HEIRESS. 

face,  and  from  its  paleness  and  anxiety,  I  should  say 
that  trouble  has  visited  her  heart  too  early.  But, 
she  is  waiting  for  me,  and  I  mustn't  linger  here." 

So,  taking  a  light,  Doctor  Milnor  went  up  to 
his  room,  and  prepared  himself  to  go  out.  It  was 
but  a  short  time  before  he  joined  the  waiting  girl 
in  his  office. 

"  My  dear  child,"  he  said  to  her,  now  contrast- 
ing his  own  warm  and  heavy  cloak  with  the  thin 
shawl  that  was  wrapped  around  her  shoulders, 
"you  hav&  come  out  too  thinly  clad  for  so  cold 
and  stormy  a  night." 

The  girl  did  not  reply,  but  moved  towards  the 
door,  as  if  thinking,  not  of  herself  and  the  storm, 
^  but  of  her  sick  father.     Doctor  Milnor  followed 

her,  and  they  were  soon  moving  down  the  street 
in  the  driving  rain.  They  went  on  in  silence,  the 
girl  all  the  way  a  few  steps  in  advance  of  the  doc- 
tor, notwithstanding  he  kept  quickening  his  pace, 
to  keep  up  with  her.  In  about  five  minutes  they 
stopped  at  one  of  a  half  dozen  mean-looking 
houses,  in  which  none  but  the  very  poor  lived. 
A  rap  quickly  brought  a  middle-aged  woman  to 
the  door.  The  doctor  and  his  companion  entered. 

"  This  is  my  mother,  doctor,"  said  the  latter, 
as  soon  as  the  door  was  closed,  speaking  with  a 
graceful  ease  that  surprised  the  physician.  Nor 
was  he  less  surprised  to  find  in  the  mother  a  lady- 
like manner,  that  bespoke  one  of  polished  edu- 
cation. 

"I  have  sent  for  you,  doctor,"  she  said,  *' to 
see  my  husband,  who  is,  I  fear,  dangerously  ill 
He  ought  to  have  had  medical  aid  earlier;  but  we 
are " 


THE   HEIRESS.  31 

The  woman's  voice  choked,  and  she  turned 
away  her  head  to  hide  her  feelings. 

The  doctor  remained  silent  until  she  recovered 
herself,  and  said, 

"  We  have  not  felt  able  to  call  in  a  physician, 
and  from  that  cause,  I  fear,  my  husband's  com 
£         plaint  has  been  allowed  to  go  on  too  long."  s 

"  How  long  has  he  been  sick  ?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"  His  health  has  been  failing  for  some  years. 
But,  he  has  taken  cold,  and  is  now  very  ill,  indeed."  > 

"  Shall  I  see  him  ?" 

"  If  you  please,  doctor.    Walk  up  stairs." 
it  Doctor  Milnor  ascended  a  narrow  pair  of  un 

carpeted  stairs,  and  entered  a  small  chamber.  Its 
furniture  was  of  the  poorest  kind ;  yet  all  was  neat.  ',;' 

A  faint  light  showed  him  a  man  lying  upon  a  bed, 
with  but  a  thin  sheet  over  him,  although  there  was 
no  fire  in  the  room,  and  the  air  was  chilly.  His  \- 

breathing  was  very  labored,  for,  with  each  exhala- 
tion of  air,  there  was  a  strong  motion  of  the  whole 
body.  His  large  eyes  glistened  as  he  turned  them 
upon  the  doctor,  who  at  once  approached  the  bed- 
side, and  taking  a  chair,  placed  his  fingers  upon 
the  pulse  of  his  patient. 

"  Have  you  any  pain  ?"  he  asked,  after  about  a 
minute. 

"  Yes." 

"Where?" 


u  In  all  my  limbs,  but  particularly  in  my  chest." 
"You  are  oppressed  in  breathing?" 
"O  yes.    I  draw  every  breath  with  difficulty." 
The  doctor  sat  silent  for  some  time,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  intently  upon  the  man's  emaciated  coun- 
»enance.    He  was  about  to  ask  some  further  ques- 


rwv>_-i. 


32  THE    HE.RESS. 


tions,  when  the  patient  began  to  cough  violent  _, 
The  paroxysm  continued  for  nearly  a  minute,  and 
left  him  completely  exhausted,  and  panting  as  if 
he  would  suffocate. 

The  hoarse  voice  of  the  sick  man,  his  deep 
hollow-sounding  cough,  the  pearly  lustre  of  his 
large  eyes,  the  cadaverous  paleness  of  his  whole  vis- 
•;  age,  with  the  exception  of  circumscribed  red  spots 

on  his  cheeks,  the  thinness  of  his  hair,  which  had 
;•  evidently  been  falling  for  some  time,  and  the  vio- 

lence of  the  fever,  with  deep-seated  pains  and  op- 
pressed breathing,  spoke  to  the  physician  a  too  dis- 
tinct language.  The  sick  man,  as  he  grew  calm  after 
the  fit  of  coughing,  looked  intently  into  his  face. 
He  understood  the  meaning  of  his  look,  and  turned 
his  head,  with  a  feeling  of  sadness,  away.  In  his 
mind  theie  was  no  hope  for  the  invalid.  The  dis- 
ease, exacerbated  by  the  violent  cold  which  had 
been  taken  on  the  day  before,  was  rapidly  ad- 
vancing towards  a  fatal  termination.  He  might 
arrest  it,  temporarily,  by  medicine;  though  even 
of  this  he  was  doubtful. 

After  sitting  for  a  short  time  longer,  he  wrote  a 
prescription. 

"This  will  give  you  relief,"  he  said;  "take  one 
of  the  powders  every  hour  until  you  are  better. 
In  the  morning  I  will  see  you  again." 

The  prescription  was  a  mere  palliative. 

u  Doctor,"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  after  the  physician 
s  had  left  the  sick  room,  looking  anxiously  at  him, 

as  she  spoke,  "what  do  you  think  of  him?" 

"  He  is  a  sick  man,  madam.  But  I  think,  after 
he  takes  the  medicine  I  have  ordered,  he  will 
become  easier  and  have  a  good  night's  rest." 

! 


THE   HEIRESS.  33 


"Do  you  think  it  is ?" 

"  I  will  see  your  husband  to-morrow  morning, 
madam,"  said  Doctor  Milnor,  interrupting  the  <J 

woman.    "  I  can  judge  of  his  case  much  better 
then  than  I  can  now.    The  cold  he  has  taken  has  ? 

increased  all  the  ordinary  symptoms  of  his  dis-  <; 

ease." 

And  with  this  he  bowed  and  withdrew. 

\ 

J 

CHAPTER  VI. 

s 

"  LET  me  go  at  once  for  the  medicine,"  said  the 
daughter,  the  moment  Doctor  Milnor  had  closed 
the  door  after  him. 

•'  Yes,  dear.    But " 

And  the  mother  paused  and  looked  troubled 
Then  she  went  to  some  drawers  and  searched 
them  carefully. 

"  I  don't  believe  there  is  a  cent  in  the  house, 
Anna.  How  are  we  to  get  the  medicine  ?"  she  at 
length  whispered. 

The  girl's  countenance,  that  had  been  brighter 
since  the  doctor  came  in,  fell,  and  her  eyes  were 
dimmed  with  tears.  She  stood  thoughtful  a  moment,  ;> 


and  then  said,  in  a  low,  answering  whisper, 
"  We  must  have  the  medicine." 
"  Yes  —  yes.     But  how  are  we  to  get  it  without 
^          money  ?" 


"  I  will  beg  it,  if  I  can  do  no  better.  Where  ia 
the  prescription  ?  If  Mr.  Martin  will  not  put  it  up, 
and  wait  for  us  <o  pay  him,  I  will  go  to  Doctot 
Milnor." 


34  THE    HEIRESS. 

\  j; 

«  We  must  have  it,  my  child.  Get  it  if  you  pos- 
sibly can,"  returned  the  mother,  looking  away 
from  her  daughter's  face. 

Anna  put  on  her  bonnet,  drew  her  thin  shawl 
about  her  shoulders,  and  again  went  forth  into  the 
stormy  night.  It  was  some  distance  to  the  near- 
est drug-rstore — only  a  few  dim  lights  were  here 
and  there  seen  struggling  with  darkness,  and  the 
rain  was  falling  heavily.  A  sense  of  fear  took, 
momentarily,  possession  of  her;  but  a  strong 
anxiety  on  account  of  her  father,  and  her  desire 
to  get  for  him  the  medicine  that  was  to  relieve  the 
violence  of  his  present  symptoms,  quickly  dis- 
pelled this  weakness.  She  moved  on  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  drug-store  with  rapid  steps. 

"Heh!  stop!  look  here?  Where  are  you  going?" 
cried  a  man,  suddenly,  whom  she  had  not  before 
noticed,  as  he  started  towards  her  from  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  street. 

Anna  stood  instantly  still,  from  fright;  her  heart 
ceasing  to  beat,  as  if  she  had  suddenly  become  in- 
animate. The  man  continued  to  advance,  and  was 
within  a  few  paces  of  her,  when  her  heart's  return- 
ing pulsations  sent  the  blood  again  throughout  her 
body,  and  restored  self-consciousness.  Bounding 
away  like  a  frightened  deer,  she  was  soon  beyond 
the  reach  of  harm,  if  harm  were  intended  her. 

"  Will  you  put  this  up  for  me  ?"  she  asked, 
timidly  advancing  to  the  counter,  on  entering  the 
drug-store,  and  presenting  the  prescription  that 
had  been  left  by  Doctor  Milnor.  There  were  two 
or  three  men  sitting  by. 

The  owner  of  the  shop  took  the  small  slip  of 
paper  from  her  hand,  and  ran  his  eye  over  it. 

\ 

•         . 


THE  HEIRESS.  35 

"How  much  will  it  be?"  Anna  asked,  in  a  low 
lone,  leaning  over  the  counter. 

"  A  'bit,"  was  replied. 

The  compounder  of  medicines  then  began  to  put 
up  the  prescription.  He  had  nearly  completed  it, 
when  Anna,  who  felt  sensibly  her  embarrassing  po- 
sition, especially  as  there  were  others  present,  bent 
over  the  counter  again,  and  said  in  a  faltering  voice, 
imt  so  low  that  no  ear  but  his  took  in  her  words — 

"I  have  no  money  to  pay  for  the  medicine. 
Won't  you  trust  us  for  a  little  while  ?" 

The  pestle  with  which  the  apothecary  was  tritu- 
rating one  of  the  articles  in  the  prescription,  dropped 
from  his  hand,  and  he  looked  into  the  girl's  face 
with  surprise. 


"Trust!  Humph!  Pay  to-day  and  I'll  trust  you 


Completely  driven  back  into  herself  by  the  man's 
decided  manner,  Anna  turned  away  and  glided  from 
the  shop. 

"Pretty  cool,  that!"  remarked  the  apothecary. 
as  the  girl  closed  the  door  after  her. 

"What?" 

"  That  young  lady  brought  me  a  prescription, 
and  when  it  was  half  put  up,  asked  if  I  would'nt 
trust  her." 

«Ah!" 

"  Yes.    And  that  is  what  I  call  pretty  cool." 

"I  should  think  it  was.  You  buy  your  medi- 
cines, I  suppose  ?"  remarked  one,  jocosely. 


to-morrow."   And  so  saying,  he  pushed  the  mortar  ') 

from  him,  petulently,  and,  walking  from  behind  the 
counter,  came  around  by  the  stove,  and  joined  the 
little  group  who  were  discussing  some  grave  polit- 
ical question. 


96  THE   HEIRESS. 

"I  do:  and  pay  for  them  into  the  bargain." 

"  What  did  her  prescription  call  for  ?"  asked  a 
second  person. 

"  An  anodyne." 

"  The  girl  looked  poor.  I  noticed  her  as  she 
came  in.  Who  is  she?" 

"I  don't  know,  although  I  have  seen  her  in 
here  occasionally." 

"  Whose  prescription  is  it  ?" 

"  Doctor  Milnor's." 

"And  was  intended  to  allay  the  pain  of  some 
poor  suffering  creature.  I  thought  you  had  more 
of  the  milk  of  human  kindness  in  your  breast, 
Martin.  You  are  the  last  person  I  should  have  sus- 
pected of  refusing  a  little  medicine  to  the  sick." 

Martin  was  a  hasty  man,  but  not  deliberately 

unkind.     This  remark  made  him  sensible  that  he 

j;  had  done  wrong,  and  he  confessed  his  error.    But, 

it  was  too  late  to  retrieve  it.     The  applicant  had 

departed. 

On  leaving  the  drug-store,  Anna  Gray  took  a 
wide  circuit  to  avoid  passing  the  particular  place 
where  she  had  been  accosted  by  a  stranger,  who, 
to  her  mind,  evidently  intended  no  good.  In 
doing  so,  she  had  to  pass  another  drug-store.  She 
was  about  to  enter  this  one.  and  had  her  hand 
upon  the  door,  when  she  recollected  to  have  left 
the  prescription  at  Martin's.  Nothing  now  re- 
mained but  to  call  again  upon  Doctor  Milnor. 
Much  as  her  sensitive  and  naturally  independent 
feelings  shrunk  from  doing  this,  love  and  duty 
urged  her  forward.  Resolutely  she  bent  her  steps 
in  the  direction  of  his  office. 

The  doctor  had  returned  home,  and  was  again 


THE    HEIRESS.  37 

ij 

enjoying  the  society  of  his  family,  when  the  ser- 
vant opened  the  door  and  announced  another  call. 

"  You  must  not  go  out  again.  Indeed,  you  must 
not!"  said  Mrs.  Milnor. 

The  doctor  smiled,  and  then  arose  and  went 
into  his  office. 

a  Why,  what  is  the  matter,  my  good  girl?"  said 
he,  in  surprise,  seeing  that  it  was  Anna  Gray  again. 
"  Is  your  father  worse?" 

"No,  sir.    But " 

"  But  what,  child  ?  Speak  out.  What  more  can 
I  do  for  you  ?" 

"  We  have  no  money  to  get  the  medicine."  This 
was  said  with  an  effort  and  a  burning  cheek. 

"Why  didn't  you  say  so  when  I  was  at  your 
house?  I  would  have  sent  it  to  you." 

"  Mother  didn't  like  to  do  so.  But  I  knew  yon 
would  let  us  have  it,  and  so  1  have  came  to  you 
again." 

"  Certainly,  I  will,  child.  There,  sit  down,  until 
I  prepare  it  for  you." 

And  the  doctor  took  down  his  bottles,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  had  the  medicine  ready. 

"  Have  you  really  no  money  at  all  ?"  he  said, 
as  he  put  it  in  the  hands  of  the  girl. 

"  Not  now,"  she  said,  with  an  evident  wish  to 
aioid  being  closely  questioned. 

';Do  you  expect  to  receive  a  supply  soon?" 
pursued  the  doctor. 

"  Yes — no — when  father  gets  better,  he  can  earn 
something,  and  then  we  will  pay  you." 

"Don't  talk  about  paying  me,"  returned  Doctor 

Milnor,  a  good  deal  moved.    "But  if  you  have  no 

monry,  now,  how  are  you  going  to  live?" 

D 


38  THE    HEIRESS. 

"  We  don't  want  much,  and  we've  still  got  a 
little  flour  and  meat  in  the  house.  Father  will  be 
better  soon,  1  hope,  and  mother  and  I  will  take  m 
sewing." 

"Have you  ever  taken  in  sewing, as  you  call  it?" 

"  O  yes.  But  we  hav'nt  been  here  a  great  while. 
And  we  don't  yet  know  any  body  from  whom  we 
can  obtain  it." 

Doctor  Milnor  thought  a  moment,  and  then 
said — 

"  Run  home  quickly,  and  give  your  father  that 
medicine.  In  the  morning  I  will  call  in  again." 

Thanking  the  kind  physician  with  a  mute,  but 
expressive  look,  Anna  turned  away  and  left  his 
office. 


>;  t 

CHAPTER  VII. 

"HAVE  you  got  it?"  eagerly  asked  the  mother 
of  Anna,  as  she  came  in  after  an  absence  of  over 
half  an  hour. 

"  Yes.  Here  it  is.  Martin  refused  to  trust  me. 
and  I  had  to  go  to  Doctor  Milnor." 

Mrs.  Gray  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  took  the 
medicine  quickly  from  her  daughter's  hand,  and 
hurried  with  it  up  to  the  chamber  of  her  sick  hus- 
band. As  she  did  so,  Anna  heard  her  father's  deep 
sounding,  concussive  cough,  that  to  her  ear  was 
more  than  ever  distressing. 

After  one  of  the  powders  had  been  given,  the 
sick  man  seemed  to  find  some  relief.  Before  half 
an  hour  had  passed  he  was  sleeping  quietly. 


THE   HEIRESS.  39 

< 

il  Now  Anna,  do  you  go  to  bed,  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
£         Gray,  "  I  will  set  up  with  your  father  to-night." 

"No,  mother:  you  were  up  the  whole  of  last 
night,  and  hav'nt  lain  down  once  to-day.  You 
must  go  to  bed  and  let  me  sit  up.  1  can  do  it  very 
well.  The  doctor  said  that  he  would  sleep  well 
after  the  medicine.  Oh,  I  hope  he  will  be  a  great 
deal  better  in  the  morning.  I  am  sure  he  will,  for 
the  medicine  apted  so  quickly." 

Her  mother  was  by  no  means  so  sanguine;  for  •; 

she  understood  that  it  was  nothing  more  than  an 
anodyne  that  her  husband  had  taken.  But  she 
did  not  wish  to  destroy  the  lively  hope  that  had  s 

sprung  up  in  her  daughter's  mind,  and  therefore 
said  nothing  to  the  contrary. 

Earnestly  urged  by  Anna,  she  at  length  con-  \ 

sented  to  lie  down,  though  without  taking  off  her 
clothes.  Overwearied  by  long  watching,  and  from 
want  of  natural  rest  and  sleep,  Mrs.  Gray  soon  fell 
into  a  deep  slumber,  and  Anna  was  left  the  only 
conscious  being  in  that  sick  chamber.  At  first  an 
indescribable  feeling  of  loneliness  stole  over  her. 
There  was  a  pause  in  nature.  Even  her  own 
heart's  pulsations  seemed  hushed  into  rest.  This 
feeling  passed  away  after  a  time,  as  her  thoughts 
became  more  active.  These  not  being  pleasant, 
she  took  up  a  book,  and  sought  forgetful  ness  of  ;' 

herself  in  its  pages.  For  several  hours  she  read, 
with  only  the  interruptions  occasioned  by  the  utter- 
ance of  a  heavy  groan  now  and  then,  that  struggled 
up  from  the  breast  of  the  sleeping  invalid.  At  last, 
even  these  were  intermitted,  and  her  father  slept 
more  quietly. 

About  one  o'clock,  she  laid  aside  her  book.    It 


40  THE    HEIRESS. 

had  ceased  longer  to  interest  her.  Rising  from  her 
chair,  she  took  the  lamp,  and  going  to  the  bed 
upon  which  her  father  slept,  held  it  so  that  the 
light  would  fall  clearly  on  his  face.  Its  expression 
caused  her  to  start,  and  sent  the  blood  flowing 
back  upon  her  heart. 

But  she  recovered  herself  in  a  moment.  He  was 
breathing  easily — nay,as  gently  as  a  sleeping  infant. 
Turning  from  the  bed-side  she  replaced  the  lamp, 
shading  it  so  that  its  light  would  not  fall  upon  the 
sick  man's  face,  and  then  retired  to  a  chair  in  the 
shadow  of  the  room.  The  storm  had  increased 
instead  of  abating  with  the  progress  of  the  night.  ? 
It  rushed  and  roared  along  the  streets,  and  drove 
against  the  frail  tenement  which  they  occupied, 
with  a  force  that  made  it  shake  to  the  foundation. 
None  will  wonder  that  the  young  watcher,  now  j; 
that  her  mind  had  ceased  to  be  occupied  as  it  had 
been  during  the  former  part  of  the  night,  should  3 
feel  a  dark,  superstitious,  and  undefinable  fear  steal- 
ing over  it.  Every  deeper  sigh  of  the  storm,  every 
mysterious  moaning  of  the  wind,  every  strange 
sound  by  night  made  audible,  fell  with  a  chilling 
sensation  upon  her  heart.  At  last  she  arose,  and 
went  to  the  bed  upon  which  her  mother  lay  sleep- 
ing soundly,  and  crouched  down  close  beside  her. 
Here  she  reclined  for  nearly  an  hour,  until  sleep 
began  to  steal  over  her  senses. 

A  moaning  sound  startled  her  just  as  she  had 
become  unconscious  of  external  things.  Rising  to 
her  feet,  she  stood  bewildered  for  a  moment.  The 
sound  came  to  her  ear  again.  It  was  from  her 
father.  Stepping  quickly  to  the  bed  upon  which  1 
he  lay,  she  bent  over  him  anxiously.  He  still 


THE    HEIRK3S.  ll 


causing  her  to  spring  to  his  bed-side  with  a  quiver- 


slept;  and  still  breathed  easily — but  every  few 
minutes  moaned  as  if  in  pain. 

Sighing  heavily,  she  turned  away,  and  again 
shrunk  near  to  her  mother.  But  she  felt  no  more 
inclination  to  sleep.  Superstitious  thoughts  were 
again  thrown  into  her  mind.  She  felt  as  if  some 
^earful  vision  would  every  moment  rise  up,  and 
>rive  her  mad.  Images  of  more  real  things,  after 
awhile,  impressed  her  imagination.  These  were 
taking  new  forms  every  moment,  when  a  deeper 
groan  from  her  father  again  startled  her.  In  a  little 
while  a  strange  distinct  rattle  thrilled  her  ear, 


ing  heart. 

Her  father  lay  motionless.  She  bent  her  ear 
down,  but  felt  no  breath  upon  her  cheek.  Turn- 
ing to  the  light,  she  removed  the  object  that  shaded 
it  from  the  bed,  and  then  glided  back.  One  look 
sufficed.  Death's  angel  had  set  his  seal  upon  the 
sick  man's  face.  A  long  wailing  cry  filled  the 
chamber,  and  the  poor  girl  fell  senseless  upon  the 
touch  that  supported  her  father's  corpse. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

ABOUT  nine  o'clock  on  the  next  morning, 
Doctor  Milnor  left  his  house,  and  walked  with  a 
quicker  step  than  usual,  toward  that  part  of  the 
town  where  resided  the  poor  family  that  had  called 
him  in  on  the  evening  previous.  The  storm  that 
raged  so  violently  through  a  greater  part  of  th« 
»9 


42  THE    HEIRESS. 

night  had  passed  away,  and  the  sun  was  shining 
brightly  down  from  a  clear  blue  sky. 

The  doctor  looked  serious  and  thoughtful  as  he 
pursued  his  way.  The  incidents  of  the  preceding 
evening  had  affected  him  a  good  deal.  His  patient 
could  not,  he  felt  certain,  live  but  for  a  short  time. 
Disease  had  taken,  evidently,  too  deep  a  hold 
upon  his  vitals.  It  was  plain  that  his  wife  and 
daughter  clung  to  him  with  a  most  intense  affec- 
tion ;  that  they  were  willing  to  bear  any  privation 
5  so  that  he  could  be  spared  to  them.  And  it  was  ^ 
equally  plain,  that  death  would  soon  claim  his 
victim. 

"  Who  are  they  ?"  he  asked  himself,  as  he 
walked  along — a  question  he  had  already  put  more 
than  twenty  times.  "  That  Mrs.  Gray  is  a  woman 
of  education  and  refinement.  Far  better  days  has 
she  seen.  Ah,  me!  How  hard  it  must  be  for 
one  like  her  to  bear  so  great  a  change !" 

With  such  thoughts  passing  through  his  mind 
Doctor  Milnor  walked  on,  until  he  found  himself 
at  the  humble  residence  of  his  patient.    He  knock- 
ed at  the  door,  and  waited  for  some  moments,  but 
no  one  came.     He  knocked   louder;    still   there 
was  no  movement  within.     Lifting  the  latch  he         '«, 
pushed  open  the  door  and  entered.     No  one  was 
in   the   room   below.     He   knocked   against   the 
stairs.     No  one  answergd.     He  knocked  again— 
the  silence  of  death  succeeded.   His  heart  misgave         ;! 
him  that  all  was  not  right.     Opening  the  door  that 
enclosed    the   narrow   stairway,   Doctor  Milnor 
ascended  to  the  room  above,   in  which,  on  the 
evening  previous,  he  had  seen  his  patient.     The 
truth  was  soon  revealed.     On  a  bed  lay,  sleeping 


THE    HEIRESS.  43 

d^  kkep  of  death,  the  man  he  had  called  to  see. 
Bit.  wife  sat  by  the  bed  side,  her  face  buried  in  a 


he  did  not  stir  as  he  came  in.  The  daughter 
was  lying  upon  another  bed,  with  her  face  turned 
towards  the  light.  It  was  deadly  pale. 


For  a  moment  the  mind  of  the  physician  was 
bewildered.     But  quickly  recovering  his  self-pos- 
[;         session,  he  first  satisfied  himself  that  life  had  fled 
ff        the  pulses  of  poor  Gray.     He  then  laid  his  hand 
.  upon  the  arm  of  Mrs.  Gray,  and  called  her  name. 
Slowly  raising  her  head,  she  looked  up  wildly 
into  the  doctor's  face.     Gradually  the  expression 
of  her  countenance  changed,  as  her  thoughts  be- 
came distinct,  and  she  murmured  in  a  tone  that 
s'        was  inexpressibly  sad — 

«  Too  late,  doctor !    Too  late  !" 
"  The  Lord  giveth,  and  the  Lord  taketh  away," 
he  replied,  scarce  thinking  of  the  words  he  was 
uttering. 

The  stricken  wife  did  not  reply ;  but  the  words 
;,'  gave  her  strength.  She  arose  to  her  feet,  shudder- 
ing as  she  did  so,  and  moved  by  a  similar  thought 
with  that  which  prompted  the  doctor,  passed  from 
the  bed  of  death  to  that  upon  which  lay  her  daugh- 
ter. As  she  took  Anna's  hand,  the  girl  started  up 
with  a  low,  affrighted  cry. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Anna  ?"  the  mother  asked, 
in  a  soothing  voice. 


"  Oh,  such  a  dreadful  dream !  Father  !  Yes,  yes, 
it  is  too  true !"  and  clasping  her  hands  together 
she  sunk  back  upon  the  bed,  and  wept  bitterly. 

"  Anna,  dear !"  said  the  mother,  forgetting  for 
a  moment  her  own  deep  sorrow  in  pain  for  her 


44  THE    HEIRESS. 

; 

child.     "  He  is  free  from  his  terrible  sufferings 
We  must  think  of  his  release,  not  of  our  bereave 
ment.     Our  loss   is   his   gain.     Think   of  that, 
Anna." 

But  Anna  wept  and  sobbed,  while  her  whole 
frame  quivered.  Nearly  ten  minutes  passed,  before 
Doctor  Milnor  could  get  the  mother  and  daughter 
calm  enough  to  speak  with  him  rationally. 

"  Let  me  call  in  some  of  your  friends,   now 
Tou  must  retire  from  this  scene.     Your   hearts 
£  are  already  sufficiently  tried,"  said  the  doctor. 

u  We  have  no  friends,"  was  the  low  reply. 

"Some  of  your  neighbors,"  I  mean  . 

"  We  know  none.  We  are  total  strangers  to  all 
around  us." 

"  1  will  find  you  neighbors,"  said  the  doctor, 
leaving  the  room  as  he  spoke.  He  went  out,  and 
knocked  at  the  door  of  the  adjoining  house.  An 
old  woman  answered  the  summons. 

"Mr.  Gray,  who  lives  next  door  to  you,  died 
this  morning.  Won't  you,  and  some  of  your 
neighbors  come  in  and  lay  him  out  ?" 

"  Mr.  Gray !  I  thought  he  wouldn't  stand  it 
long.  He's  gone  then,  is  he  ?  Ah,  well !  he's 
better  off  I  should  think.  He's  kept  me  awake 
for  many  an  hour  with  his  dreadful  coughing. 
Oh,  yes ;  I'll  come  in.  Poor  souls  !  How  are 
his  wife  and  daughter?  I  often  thought  that  I 
would  call  in  and  see  them  in  a  neighborly  way. 
but  they  didn't  look  as  if  they  had  always  been 
poor  people,  and,  somehow,  or  other,  it  seemed  to 
me,  that  if  I  called  in  it  would  not  be  agreeable. 
I  didn't  think  the  poor  man  was  so  far  gone,  or  I 
would  have  looked  in  at  any  rate." 


THE    HEIRESS.  45 

/ 

"  Then  come  in  with  me  at  once,  if  you  please. 
Mr.  Gray  has  been  dead  for  some  hours,  and  they 
have  been  alone  with  his  body  ever  since." 

"  Dear  bless  me  !  Is  it  possible  ?  I  will  put 
on  another  gown,  and  be  in  presently." 

"  No — no.  Never  mind  another  gown.  The 
eyes  of  the  wife  and  daughter  are  too  full  of  tears 
to  see  what  you  have  on.  Can't  you  get  a  neigh- 
bor to  come  with  you." 

"  Yes,  sir.     Mrs.  Gordon  across  the  street  will 
come  in  a  minute,  I  know." 
•     "  Then  run  over  for  her,  won't  you  ?" 

"Yes  I  will."  And  the  kind  hearted  old  wo- 
man went  quickly  across  the  street.  In  a  few 
minutes  she  returned  in  company  with  another 
female,  and  to  these  Doctor  Milnor  left  the  duty 
of  preparing  the  dead  for  burial,  while  he  went 
to  visit  a  few  patients  who  required  immediate 
attention.  After  looking  in  upon  these,  he  called 
on  a  benevolent  female  friend,  and  related  what  \ 

had  just  occurred.     She  promised  at  once  to  go  •; 

around  among  her  acquaintances,  and  procure  mo- 
npy  enough  to  meet  all  the  funeral  expenses,  and 
afterwards  to  visit  the  destitute  and  afflicted  family. 

"  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  they  are  without  food," 
said  the  doctor.  "  Last  night  I  was  called  in  to 
see  the  husband  and  father.  I  prescribed  for  him, 
but  they  had  no  money  even  to  buy  medicine." 

"  So  poor  as  that !  Something,  then,  must  be 
wrong  with  them." 

"  Nothing  more,  I  think,  than  being  in  a  strange 
place,  and  he  to  whom  they  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  looking  up  for  support,  unable  to  afford  it." 

"  I  will  see  them  aJ  once." 


46  THE    HEIRESS. 

s  \ 

u  I  wish  you  would.  Good  day.  I  will  call 
upon  you  again  this  afternoon." 

All  that  was  necessary  for  the  decent  burial  of 
Gray  was  provided  by  the  kindness  of  strangers. 
On  the  day  after,  he  was  consigned  to  the  cold 
earth,  and  his  bereaved  wife  and  daughter,  who, 
almost  alone,  had  followed  his  remains  to  their 
earthly  resting  place,  returned  to  their  cheerless 
home.  There  they  found,  deposited  during  their 
absence,  supplies  of  food,  clothing,  and  a  small 
sum  of  money.  The  donor  had  departed. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

AFTER  the  death  of  Mr.  Gray,  his  wife  and 
daughter,  through  the  kind  interest  of  Doctor 
Milnor,  were  able  to  get  sewing  enough  from  fa-  ^ 
milies  in  the  neighborhood  to  supply  all  their 
immediate  wants.  Sad  hearted,  but  with  patience 
and  industry,  they  worked  on,  day  after  day.  A  J; 
few  ladies,  whose  sensibilities  had  been  touched 
by  hearing  their  story  related  by  the  doctor,  visited 
them,  occasionally,  at  first ;  but  Mrs.  Gray  seemed 
to  shrink  with  such  evident  sensitiveness  from 
these  intrusions,  that  they  were  soon  discontinued, 
and,  in  one  or  two  cases,  with  offended  feelings 
on  the  part  of  the  well-meaning  visitors. 

"  If  she  is  poor,  she  is  as  proud  as  Lucifer," 
was  the  remark  of  one. 

"  There  is  something  wrong  about  her,"  said 
another. 


THE    HEIRESS.  47 


"I  wonder  if  she  were  ever  married  to  that 
man  ?"  was  the  suggestive  inquiry  of  a  third. 

"  I  don't  know.  But  I  feel  very  sure  that  she 
must  have  done  something  to  cut  her  off  from  her 
family  and  friends;  for  any  one  can  see,  at  a 
glance,  that  she  has  been  well  educated,  and  used 
to  moving  in  refined  circles.  Perhaps  she  has 
married  some  one  beneath  her,  who  has  dragged 
her  down  to  his  own  dead  level  in  society."  4 

"  Nearer  the  truth,  no  doubt.  But  there  is  no 
telling." 

Thus  was  suspicion  engendered.  Its  effect 
was,  to  make  those  who  had  felt  in  the  first  in- 
stance, interested  in  the  destitute  strangers,  luke- 
warm in  their  cause.  At  the  expiration  of  a  month 
or  two,  they  found  it  less  easy  to  procure  sewing  ;! 

than  at  first.  This  lady  and  that,  for  whom  they 
had  worked,  had  nothing  more  for  them  to  do. 
Finally,  what  little  came  into  their  hands,  was 
given  so  reluctantly,  and  in  the  form  always,  of  a 
favor  bestowed,  that  poor  Anna,  shrunk  from  the 
task  of  going  after  it. 

"  I  don't  think  Mrs.  W —  cares  about  our  doing 
any  more  work  for  her,"  she  said  to  her  mother, 
on  coming  home  one  day,  with  a  few  coarse  gar- 
ments to  make." 

"  Why  not,  Anna  ?" 

"  She  seems  as  if  she  don't." 

"  Did  she  say  any  thing  ?" 

"Not  very  distinctly.  But  her  manner  was 
very  cold,  and  she  said  something  that  I  could 
not  clearly  understand,  about  their  being  plenty 
of  people  needing  work  that  they  know  all 
about." 


48  THE    HEIRESS. 

A  shadow  flitted  over  the  face  of  Mrs.  Gray. 
Her  lips  were  tightly  closed  for  a  few  moments 
Then  with  a  composed  manner,  and  a  calm  voice 

'l  she  said, 

"To  eat  bread  earned  in  this  way,  Anna,  is  to 
eat  the  bread  of  charity,  —  that  neither  you  nor  I 
must  do." 

Anna  made  no  reply.  She  laid  the  bundle  she 
had  brought  home,  upon  a  table,  but  did  not  un- 
roll it.  She  felt  as  her  mother  did  —  honest  and 
independent.  She  could  work  but  not  beg  ;  no, 

^  nor  ask  for  work  that  was  grudgingly  given. 

"  It's  the  last  lot  of  sewing  they  get  from  me,'* 
said  Mrs.  W  —  ,  in  a  worried  tone  of  voice,  as 
Anna  Gray  retired  with  the  small  bundle  of  work 
she  had  given  her.  "  There  are  plenty  of  poor 
women,  that  I  know  all  about,  who  stand  in  need 

£  of  whatever  sewing  I  have  to  put  out.     There  is- 

something  mysterious  about  these  people  that  I 
don't  see  through.  Something  wrong,  depend  on 
it." 

An  hour  afterwards,  while  Mrs.  W  —  was  still 
thinking  about  Mrs.  Gray,  a  servant  handed  in  the 
very  bundle  she  had  given  to  Anna.  It  was  ac- 
companied by  a  note,  tastefully  written  and  to 
this  effect  : 


DEAR  MADAM.  —  From  something  said  by  you 
when  you  gave  my  daughter  the  work  I  now  re- 
turn you,  I  infer  that  you  did  so  with  reluctance  , 
and  also,  that  you  did  not  feel  sure  that  we  were 
deserving  the  privilege  of  even  earning  our  food 
by  honest  labor.  Forgive  the  sensitive  pride, 
that  even  in  extreme  necessity,  cannot  receive  any 


THE   HEIRESS.  49 

favor  not  freely  bestowed.      I  should  lose  my 
own  self  respect,  were  I  to  do  so. 

Respectfully  yours, 

ANNA  GRAY." 
ff  \ 

Mrs.  W —  was  much  annoyed  by  the  contents 
of  this  note,  and  angry  at  what  she  called  the  in- 
sulting presumption  of  the  writer,  who,  she  was 
very  certain,  was  no  better  than  she  should  be. 
It  was  shown  to  several  friends,  and  commented 
upon  in  various  forms,  in  nearly  all  cases,  much 
to  the  disparagement  of  poor  Mrs.  Gray. 

"  Some  people,"  remarked  Mrs.  W —  "  are  like 
ill-natured  dogs,  if  you  pat  them  on  the  head,  you 
get  your  fingers  snapped  off  for  your  pains." 

"One  who  is  really  deserving,"  said  another, 
"is  always  humble  and  thankful." 

"Like  Mrs.  Gleeson,"  added  a  third.  "It  is 
really  a  pleasure  to  help  her,  she  is  so  grateful. 
She  seems  as  if  she  would  kiss  the  very  ground 
you  stand  on." 

"  How  different  from  this  Mrs.  Gray,"  said  Mrs. 
W — .  "  If  what  you  have  to  do  for  her  is  not 
done  in  a  certain  way ;  if  the  etiquette  of  charity 
is  not  fully  observed,  she  flares  up  in  an  instant, 
and  flings  your  offering  back  into  your  face.  J 
guess  it's  the  last  favor  she  gets  of  my  hands,  ii 
she  starves." 

Mrs.  W —  considered  herself  a  very  benevolent 
woman,  and  so  did  many  others.  She  was  always 


active  in  public  charities ;  but  it  must  be  told,  that 
the  charities  of  home  were   not  always  strictly 


observed. 


It  soon  went  through  the  whole  circle  of  ladies 
E 


50  THE   HEIRESS. 

?  > 

who  had  assisted  Mrs.  Gray,  that  she  had  written 
an  insulting  note  to  Mrs.  W —  and  refused  to  work 
for  her,  because  her  daughter  had  misrepresented 
something  or  other  that  had  been  said.  Of  course, 
all  were  very  indignant,  and  all  knew,  from  the 
first,  that  it  would  turn  out  just  so. 

During  the  week,  Anna  called  on  several  per- 
sons for  whom  they  had  worked,  but  all  treated 
her  coldly,  and  none  had  any  thing  to  give  out. 
|>  All  this  passed  without  having  found  its  way 

to  the  ears  of  Doctor  Milnor.     But  even  he  did 
not  remain  long  in  ignorance.     Meeting  with  one 
£  of  the  kind  ladies  whom  he  had  interested  in  be 

half  of  Mrs.  Gray,  about  three  weeks  from  the 
time  of  the  difficulty  with  Mrs.  W — ,  he  said, 

"How  comes  on  poor  Mrs.  Gray  and  her 
daughter  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I  am  sure,"  replied  the  lady, 
looking  serious. 

"  When  did  you  see  her  last  ?" 

"  I  have  not  seen  her  for  several  weeks." 

"Indeed!" 

"  No,  doctor.     Why,  havn't  you  heard  ?" 

"  Heard  what,  Mrs. ?"  asked  the  doctor, 

looking  pained  and  surprised. 

"  How  she  served  Mrs.  W —  ?" 

"No.     How  did  she  serve  her  ?" 

"Why,  bless  me!  I  supposed  you  knew  all 
about  it." 

"  No  indeed.  I  have  not  heard  a  word.  But 
tell  me.  I  shall  be  sorry  if  I  am  deceived  in  that 
woman." 

u  Deceived  ?  Yes  indeed ;  we  are  all  deceived. 
She  has  acted  very  badly  " 


!  I 

I  THE    HEIRESS.  51 

"  Tell  me  what  she  has  done  ?" 
"  Insulted  Mrs.  W —  most  grossly." 

«  HOW  r  ; 

"  I  will  tell  you.  Mrs.  W —  sett  her  some 
work  to  do,  and  she  returned  it  with  an  insulting 
note."  J 

tt  Refusing  to  do  the  work  ?" 

"  O,  certainly." 

"  That  is  strange.  Do  you  remember  the  con- 
tents of  the  note  ?" 

k'Not  exactly;  but  there  was  something  in  it 
about  thanking  her  to  keep  her  work  to  herself, 
if  she  grudged  letting  her  have  it,  and  all  that  kind 
of  thing." 

"  Humph  !    I  will  see  Mrs.  W— ." 

"  Do  so,  doctor.  She  will  tell  you  all  about 
it,  and  show  you  the  note.  When  you  see  it  you 
will  agree  with  me,  that  she  ought  to  be  left  to 
come  to  her  senses  by  a  little  suffering.  Some 
people  in  this  world  cannot  bear  the  least  good 
fortune." 

Doctor  Milnor  called  upon  Mrs.  W —  on  the 
same  day ;  heard  her  version  of  the  matter,  and 
read  Mrs.  Gray's  note.  It  must  be  owned  that  his 
impression  differed  in  some  respects  from  that  of 
the  coterie  of  benevolent  ladies  who  had  discard- 
ed the  poor  woman.  <! 

On  the  next  day  the  doctor  called  to  see  Mrs. 
Gray  herself,  but  to  his  great  surprise,  found  that 
the  house  in  which  she  had  lived  was  vacant.  On 
making  inquiry  next  door,  he  found,  that,  about 
a  week  previously,  Mrs.  Gray  had  sold  off  most 
of  her  things,  aud  moved  somewhere  up  the  rivei. 

The  doctor  went  away  in  a  thoughtful  mood. 

v.  r 


52  THE    HEIRESS. 


CHAPTER  X. 

MR.  GRAY  had  lived  in  Cincinnati,  for  many 
years.     At  one  time  his  circumstances  were  tol- 
erably good ;  but  a  failure  in  business,  and  sub-         •; 
sequent  ill    health   reduced   him  very   low.      A         j! 
promise  of  employment  led   him  to   remove   to 
;>  Nashville,  where  he  died,  leaving  his  family,  as 

j;  has  been  seen,  in  very  destitute  circumstances. 

So  soon  as  Mrs.  Gray  perceived  that  the  kind 
feelings  awakened  in  her  behalf,  were  beginning 
to  subside,  and  that  she  was  actually  regarded 
with  something  like  suspicion,  she  determined  to 
go  back  with  her  daughter  to  Cincinnati,  where 
they  were  better  known,  and  where  she  knew  that 
they  could  at  least  procure  work  enough  to  keep 
them  above  want.  Having  no  one  to  consult  on 
the  subject,  nothing  was  said  to  any  one.  They 
sold  off  such  articles  of  furniture  as  they  did  not 
wish  to  remove,  and  with  the  remnant  of  their 
effects,  embarked  for  Cincinnati.  No  one  asked 
them  any  questions,  and  they  communicated  with 
no  one  on  the  subject. 

In  Cincinnati  they  felt  more  at  home,  although 
the  return  to  that  city  without  the  husband  and 
father,  who  was  so  tenderly  beloved,  affected  them 
with  an  inexpressible  sadness.     But  the  necessity 
of  active  exertion,  and  that  exertion  itself,  diverted          > 
their  thoughts,  and  buoyed  up  their  minds.     They          / 
soon  found  themselves  the  occupants  of  comfort- 
able apartments,  and  with  as  much  on  their  hands 
as  they  could  do,  although  the  work  they  obtained 
was  not  very  profitable. 


THE   HEIRESS.  53 

Nothing  of  more  than  ordinary  interest  occurred 
during  the  winter  and  spring.  The  mother  and 
daughter  continued  to  labor  on,  at  work  obtained 
sometimes  from  the  shops  and  sometimes  from 
families,  managing,  by  so  doing,  to  provide  for 
themselves  all  they  desired,  and  even  to  lay  by  a 
small  sum  of  money  for  future  contingencies. 

Although  so  poor,  as  to  be  obliged  to  toil  with 
constant  industry,  Mrs.  Gray  managed  always  to 
have  a  little  time  to  spare  in  which  she  read  to  $ 

Anna,  or  caused  Anna  to  read  to  her.  Books 
were  obtained  from  a  circulating  library  at  a  very 
small  cost ;  they  were  usually  such  as  contained 
information,  01  i»et  forth  right  principles  for  con- 
duct in  life.  Occasionally  a  work  of  a  lighter 
character  was  procured,  as  a  kind  of  mental  re- 
laxation. 

As  before  intimated,  Mrs.  Gray  was  a  woman 
whose  appearance  and  manner  indicated  one  above 
the  station  she  occupied.  There  was  something  of 
the  lady  in  all  her  movements.  She  had  evidently 
been  well  educated ;  was  intelligent,  and  polished 
in  her  exterior.  With  Anna,  who  seemed  deeply 
attached  to  her  mother,  she  had  always  taken 
great  pains ;  and  it  was  gratifying  to  her  maternal 
pride  to  see  her  child  growing  up,  into  a  modest, 
graceful,  well  informed  young  woman,  fit  to  adorn 
any  circle.  Before  her  father  failed  in  business, 
Anna  had  been  taught  music  and  dancing,  and  had 
taken  lessons  in  French.  In  all  these  branches 
of  a  polite  education,  she  had  made  considerable 
progress. 

Time  passed  or..  Spring  came  and  went,  and 
the  summer  was  nearly  gone,  when  Mrs.  Gray 

E2 


54  THE    HEIRESS. 

I  ^  was  attacked  with  a  prevailing  fever,  that  brought 
her  almost  immediately  to  the  verge  of  death. 
From  this,  aided  by  the  wise  prescriptions  of  a 
skilful  physician,  she  slowly  recovered.  But  it 
was  the  middle  of  September  before  she  could 
leave  her  room.  On  the  first  day  that  she  ventured 
forth,  she  took  a  heavy  cold,  which  caused  a  re- 
lapse, from  which  she  never  recovered.  In  a  few 
short  weeks  she  sunk  into  the  grave.  }' 

£  Some  days  previous  to  this  afflicting  event,  she 

was  in  a  calmer  state  than  usual.    The  fever  that 
had  continued  with  a  slow,  but  steady  progress         ,'; 
the  work  of  destruction,  abated.     Her  mind  was 
clear,  her  eye  bright,  her  voice  firm.     The  great 
change  filled  Anna  with  hope. 

"  You  are  so  much  better,  dear  mother.     Oh  ! 
I  hope  you  will  be  well  soon  !"  she  said. 

The  mother  looked  earnestly  into  the  face  of 
her  child. 

"Anna,"  she  said,  after   some   moments   had 

ft  passed — "  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  and 

perhaps  this  is  the  fittest  time.  I  may  never  re- 
cover, and  you  should  know  all  that  pertains  to 
my  early  history.  It  may  be  of  use  to  you.  There 
may  still  be  living  those  who  will  love  you  and 


care  for  you,  for  your  mother's   sake.     I  know 
not  that  this  is  so  •,  but,  I  will  tell  you  all. 

"  My  father  was  a  rich  merchant  of  Philadelphia 
I  had  a  twin  sister  and  a  brother,  both  of  whom, 
but  especially  the  latter,  I  loved  with  warm  affec- 
tion. Contrary  to  the  wishes  of  my  family,  1 
married  your  father,  whose  only  fault  was,  want 
of  wealth,  and  high  family  connexions.  For  this 
act  I  was  cast  off.  For  a  few  years  your  father 


!  I 


THE    HEIRESS.  55 


and  myself  lived  in  Philadelphia,  and  then  we 
removed  to  this  place.  More  than  twenty  years 
have  elapsed  since  I  came  to  the  west  But  once 
during  that  time  did  the  least  tidings  from  home 
reach  me.  It  is  nearly  fifteen  years,  since  I  saw, 
announced  in  an  eastern  newspaper,  the  death  of 
my  father.  I  then  wrote  to  my  sister,  but  got  no 
answer.  She  may,  or  she  may  not  be  living. 

"  The  manner  in  which  all  of  my  family  treated 
your  father,  made  me  indignant.  I  loved  him, 
and  was  of  a  proud  temper;  I  could,  therefore, 
poorly  brook  contempt  when  it  was  cast  upon 
him,  and  upon  me  for  marrying  him.  This  feeling 
of  indignant  pride,  estranged  me  from  all  who  had 
been  dear  from  childhood. 

"But,  still  there  are  natural  claims  as  well  as 
relationships.  I  fear,  Anna,  that  I  shall  not  be 
with  you  long.  Get  your  pen  and  write  down 
the  names  of  Mason  Grant,  and  Joseph  Markland. 
Mrs.  Mary  Grant,  the  wife  of  Mason  Grant,  if  liv- 
ing, is  my  twin-sister,  and  Joseph  Markland  is  my 
brother.  Joseph  had  an  excellent  heart.  I  was 
tenderly  attached  to  him.  Oh,  I  have  so  often  and 
often  wondered  how  he  could  rest,  if  living, 
without  seeking  me  out.  But,  hearing  nothing 
from  me  in  so  long  a  time,  he  has,  probably, 
thought  me  dead.  If  ever  I  should  be  taken  from 
you,  go  at  once  to  Philadelphia,  and  seek  out  my 
sister  and  brother.  They  will  love  you,  for  their 
sister's  sake,  I  am  sure, — they  will  take  care  of 
you.  Every  one  says  you  resemble  me  strongly  ; 
that  will  be  to  them  the  best  proof  of  your  identity. 
But  there  is  another.  Bring  me  from  the  bottom 
of  my  trunk  a  small  box  that  you  will  find  there-" 


66  THE    HEIRESS. 

;.  f; 

Anna  brought  the  box.  Her  mother  opened  it, 
and  took  out  a  small,  richly  set  miniature,  that  the 
daughter  had  never  seen. 

"  This  is  the  likeness  of  my  mother,"  resumed 
Mrs.  Gray.  "  It  was  in  my  possession  when  I 
was  married,  and  I  have  ever  since  retained  it,  as 
a  most  precious  remembrancer  of  my  earliest  and 
happiest  days.  This,  with  your  strong  resemblance 
to  me,  will  make  your  statement  at  once  believed. 
Promise  me,  then,  my  child,  that  if  I  am  taken 
from  you,  you  will  seek  out  these  relations." 

Anna  promised  in  a  faint  voice ;  but,  as  she  did 
so,  a  chilling  shudder  passed  through  her  frame. 

"  Oh,  do  not  speak  of  dying,  my  dear,  dear 
mother."'  she  sobbed,  falling  upon  her  neck. 
"You  will  not  leave  me.  What  shall  I  do — 
where  shall  I  go,  when  you  are  taken  away  ?" 

"All  will  be  right,  my  child,"  returned  Mrs. 
Gray,  in  a  calm  voice.  "  It  will  be  better  for  you, 
I  trust,  and  I  shall  be  at  rest." 

Anna  continued  to  weep  in  bitter  anguish  of 
spirit.  There  was  something  so  earnest  about 
her  mother,  and  at  times  so  solemn,  while  she 
had  been  speaking  to  her,  that  she  was  deeply 
impressed  with  the  feeling  that  a  separation  was 
near — a  separation  for  which  she  was  utterly  un- 
prepared. 

That  event  was  much  closer  at  hand  tnan  either 
the  mother  or  child  had  supposed.  On  the  next 
morning  she  was  taken  quite  ill,  and  in  three  days 
breathed  out  her  last  mortal  sigh,  her  head  resting 
on  the  bosom  of  her  half  distracted  child. 

\  i 


THE    HEIRESS.  57 


CHAPTER  XI. 

IT  was  impossible  for  Anna  Gray  to  realize, 
until  after  the  burial  of  her  mother,  the  true  nature 
of  the  loss  she  had  sustained.  Death,  when  at 
last  it  came,  benumbed  for  a  time  her  feelings.  s 

';',  The  shock  was  so  severe,  that  its  effect  was 
paralyzing.  But,  after  the  body  had  been  carried 
to  the  grave,  and  the  few  sympathizing  neighbors 
who  attended  the  funeral  had  departed,  Anna  felt 
a  most  distressing  sense  of  loneliness  and  bereave-  ^ 

ment.     This  continued  for  several  days.     Then,  s 

thoughts  of  what  she  should  do,  and  where  she 
should  go,  began  to  possess  her  mind,  and  raise  it 

\         above  a  state  of  brooding  melancholy.  s 

The  promise  she  had  made  to  her  mother  a 
short  time  before  her  death,  filial  love  and  duty 
required  her  to  perform,  although  her  own  feel-  s 

ings  were  altogether  opposed.  She  did  not  wish 
to  know  the  relatives  who  had  treated  her  mother 
with  cruel  neglect;  who  had,  in  fact,  cast  her  off; 
much  less  seek  them  out,  and  apply  to  them  for 
support  and  protection.  But,  her  word  had  been 
given  to  a  dying  parent,  and  that  word  she  dared 
not  violate. 

With  a  most  unconquerable  reluctance,  she  set 
about  making  preparations  for  a  journey  to  Phila- 
delphia. Not  a  single  person,  among  the  few 
people  with  whom  she  was  acquainted,  knew  any 
one  in  Philadelphia,  or  could  give  her  any  infor- 
mation as  to  where  she  should  go,  or  how  she 
should  act  on  her  arrival  in  that  city.  The  amount 
of  money  that  she  received  from  the  sale  of  a  few 

\  \ 


58  THE    HEIRESS. 

articles  of  furniture,  was  barely  sufficient,  after 
paying  two  months'  rent,  and  buying  herself  some 
necessary  articles  of  clothing,  to  meet  the  cost  of 
her  passage  up  the  river  and  across  the  mountains. 

"Suppose  I  cannot  find  them?  What  shall  I  do 
in  a  strange  place?" — She  asked  herself  on  the 
evening  before  she  started,  and  shuddered  at  the 
question.  But  she  could  only  go  forward  and 
trust  that  all  would  come  out  right  in  the  end.  •; 

A  man  who  lived  near  neighbor,  and  who  had 
been  well  acquainted  with  her  father,  went  with 
her  to  the  steamboat  when  she  started,  and  put 
her  under  the  captain's  care,  who  promised  to  see  <! 
her  safely  in  the  stage  for  Philadelphia,  imme- 
diately on  the  arrival  of  the  boat  at  Pittsburg. 

No  incident  worth  noting  occurred  on  the  pas- 
;>  sage  up  the  river.     At  Pittsburg,  she  was  placed 

by  the  captain,  according  to  promise,  in  the  east- 
ern stage.     After  her  passage  was  paid,  she  had         ;J 
only  about  three  dollars  left.     She  was  the  only         $ 
female  passenger  among  nine  persons.     Her  heart 
trembled  when  she  found  herself  thus  situated;         '<', 
;<  but  for  this  there  was  no  cause.     She  was  treated 

with  the  kindest  attentions  during  the  whole  jour- 
ney of  three  days. 

It  was  mid-day  when  they  arrived  in  the  city. 

"  Shall  I  get  a  carriage  for  you  ?"  ask^d  one  of          ^ 
her  fellow-passengers.  .  j; 

Anna  started  from  the  deep  reverie  into  which 
she  had  fallen,  and  replied, 

"  No,  sir,  I  thank  you,"  almost  involuntarily.  <; 

The  man  paused  a  moment,  and  then  left  her  to 
look  after  his  own  baggage.  She  was  now  alone 
in  a  strange  city. 

[ _ ... 1 


THE    HEIRESS.  59 

"  A  carriage,  ma'am  ?"  "  Any  baggage,  ma'am  ?" 
asked  three  or  four  porters  and  carriage  drivers, 
passing  up  to  the  bewildered  girl,  as  she  descended 
to  the  street.  She  had  a  trunk,  and  she  knew  that 
she  would  have  to  employ  a  porter  to  carry  it  for 
her;  so  she  engaged  one,  who  took  charge  of  her 
baggage. 

"  Where  do  you  wish  it  taken,  ma'am  r" 

This  question  awoke  Anna  to  a  full  realization 
of  her  situation.  "  Where  ?"  Alas !  She  was  home- 
less. And  worse,  had  not  so  much  as  a  dollar  in 
her  purse.  The  small  sum  that  remained  on  leav- 
ing Pittsburg,  had  been  nearly  all  expended  for 
her  meals  on  the  road. 

"Do  you  wish  your  trunk  taken  to  a  hotel  or 
private  house?"  ;,' 

The  porter  asked  this  question  with  evidences 
of  impatience,  as  he  had  waited  for  over  a  minute 
for  an  answer  to  the  previous  one. 

"To  a  hotel,"  said  Anna,  faintly. 

"  Which  one,  ma'am?" 

"Do  you  know  where  a  Mr.  Grant  lives?"' 

"  No  ma'am,"  returned  the  porter. 

"Or  a  Mr.  Markland  ?" 

"Does  he  keep  a  hotel?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"  I  never  heard  the  name.  But  where  shall  I 
take  your  baggage  ?" 

Anna's  thoughts  had  been  so  much  in  confusion 
ever  since  her  departure  from  Cincinnati,  that  she 
had  not  been  able  to  determine  what  course  to 
take  on  her  arrival  in  Philadelphia.  She  was,  there- 
fore, utterly  at  a  loss  how  to  answer  the  porter's 
question 

I  \ 


60  THE    HEIRESS. 


u  Can't  my  trunk  stay  here  for  a  little  while  ?" 
ehe  at  length  asked. 

"  O  yes,  ma'am.  I  can  put  it  in  the  office  for 
you,  and  you  can  get  it  any  time.  My  name  is 
Bill.  Ask  for  Bill,  when  you  come  for  it;  or,  if 
I  am  not  here,  leave  word  where  it  is  to  go." 

The  trunk  was  accordingly  deposited  in  the 
rail-road  office,  and  Anna  started  to  go— she  knew 
not  where! 

The  sky  had  been  overcast  since  morning.  No 
rain  had  yet  fallen,  but  the  wind  was  from  the 
east,  and  the  air  damp  and  cold.  It  was  late  in 
November. 

Anna  went  forth,  and  took  her  way  down  Mar- 
ket street.  She  had  yet  settled  upon  no  course  of 
action.  She  walked  along,  because  to  stand  still, 
while  striving  to  think,  would  attract  the  attention 
she  wished,  as  a  timid  girl,  in  a  strange  city,  to 
avoid.  On,  on  she  went,  square  after  square,  until 
a  sight  of  the  river  caused  her  to  pause  for  a  full 
minute  in  sad  irresolution. 

"Where  shall  I  go?  What  must  I  do?"  she 
sighed,  as  she  crossed  over  at  Second  street,  and 
took  a  northerly  course,  wRich  she  pursued  as  far 
as  Arch  street,  up  which  she  directed  her  steps. 
After  passing  Fifth  street,  the  appearance  of  the 
houses  made  her  think  that,  possibly,  her  aunt 
might  reside  in  one  of  them,  if  still  living.  With 
this  feeble  hope  in  her  mind,  she  examined  every 
door-plate,  as  she  moved  along,  but  the  name  of 
u  Grant"  nowhere  met  her  anxious  eye. 

At  Thirteenth  street  she  stood  still,  irresolute, 
for  some  time. 

"Perhaps  I  may  find  the  house  on  the  other 


THE   HEILESS.  61 

aide,"  she  said,  and  crossed  over  and  went  down 
as  far  as  Seventh  street.  But  the  search  was  vain.  !> 

On  the  corner  of  Seventh  and  Arch  she  again 
paused,  looking  up  and  then  down  the  first  named 
street.  As  she  thus  stood,  a  young  man,  dash-  J 

ingly  attired,  approached  with  his  gaze  fixed  in- 
tently upon  her.  She  did  not  notice  him  until  he 
was  within  a  few  paces,  and  then,  as  her  eyes  fell 
on  his  face,  and  she  perceived  its  expression,  she 
shuddered  and  sprung  across  the  street  in  a  south- 
ward direction.  The  young  man  quickened  his 
pace.  She  heard  his  footsteps  behind  her,  and  her 
heart  beat  rapidly.  She  kept  in  advance  of  him  \ 

until  she  had  nearly  reached  Market  street.     But 
he  was  now  close  by  her  side.     Her  heart  flut- 
tered— the  cold  sweat  came  out  over  her  whole  £ 
body — her  limbs  could  scarcely  sustain  her.  Every 

;>         moment  she  expected  to  feel  the  rude  grasp  of  a 
man's  hand.     If  sufficient  power  had  remained, 

'<;         she  would  have  darted  forward  and  ran  on  at  full  ;' 

speed ;  but  she  felt  more  like  sinking  to  the  pave- 
ment than  running.  At  length  she  found  it  almost 
impossible  to  keep  on;  her  pace  slackened  sud- 
denly, and  the  man  who  had  been  following  her,  !; 
passed  onwards.  When  a  few  paces  beyond,  he 
turned  partly  around,  with  a  half  curious,  half 
impertinent  stare;  but  one  glance  at  Anna's  coun-  ;• 
tenance  satisfied  him  that  he  had  mistaken  her 
character.  In  a  minute  or  two  he  was  out  of  sight, 
and  Anna  moving  on  with  scarcely  power  to  walk. 
She  had  been  dreadfully  frightened. 

Since  morning,  nothing  had  been  eaten  by  the  ], 

unhappy  girl.  Want  of  food,  anxiety,  and  sudden 
alarm  caused  her  to  feel  very  faint.  For  a  few 

F 


f>  62  THE    HEIRESS. 

<  >! 

minutes  it  seemed  that  she  would  sink  to  the 
pavement.  But  she  kept  on  as  far  as  Chestnut 
street,  up  which  she  turned,  and  walked  nearly 
as  far  as  Broad  street,  examining  the  door-plates 
as  she  had  done  in  Arch  street,  and  to  as  little 
purpose. 

As  she  returned,  on  the  other  side  of  the  street, 
she  saw  cakes  in  a  confectioner's  window.    Faint 
^  and  weary,  she  entered  the  shop  and  asked  for  a 

cup  of  tea,  which  was  served  up  with  a  slice  of 
toast,  in  a  back  room.  A  girl  of  twelve  or  thirteen 
brought  these  to  her  on  a  waiter.  Anna  looked 
into  her  face,  and  saw  that  its  expression  was 
innocent  and  kind. 

"  Do  you  know  a  family  by  the  name  of  Grant?" 
she  asked  of  this  girl. 

"  Grant  ? — Grant?   No,  miss,  I  don't  know  any 
body  by  that  name." 

Anna  commenced  sipping  her  tea,  and  the  girl 
^  retired.     A  few  mouthfuls  were  eaten,  and  then 

the  young  wanderer  leaned  her  head  upon   her          \ 
hand,  with  her  eyes  cast  to  the  floor,  and  fell  into 
a  deep  state  of  abstraction.    From  this  she  was 
aroused  by  the  voice  of  the  attendant,  who  had 
returned. 

"  I  believe  there  is  a  family  named  Grant,"  she 
said,  "  around  in  Walnut  street." 

"  There  is !"   Anna  arose  as  she  spoke,  her  face 
flushed  for  a  moment,  and  then  became  pale. 

"  Tes.    They  live  in  one  of  those  largo  new 

houses  below street.     I  remember  the  name 

on  the  door." 

"Where  is  Walnut  street?" 

"  It  is  the  next  street  below." 


THE    HEIRESS,  63 

"And street?" 

"  Just  two  streets  above." 

"  Do  you  know  any  thing  about  the  family?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head,  and  then  remarked, 

"  They  are  very  rich,  no  doubt." 

Anna  said  nothing  further.   The  girl  retired,  and 


she  sat  down  to  collect  her  scattered  thoughts. 


"  They  are  very  rich,  no  doubt."  "  A  large  new 
house."  These  words  kept  ringing  in  her  ears, 
and  caused  her  to  cast  her  eyes  down  upon  her 
own  poor  apparel. 

"  Suppose  it  is  my  mother's  sister  ? — how  will 
she  receive  me  ?"  This  question,  never  asked  so  s 

seriously  before,  caused  her  heart  to  sink.  It  was 
full  half  an  hour  before  she  could  summon  reso- 
lution sufficient  to  go  forth  in  search  of  the  dwell- 
ing that  contained,  or  might  contain  the  relative 
she  sought. 

It  was  after  four  o'clock  when  she  left  the  shop 
where  she  had  taken  some  refreshment.  The  air 
had  become  colder,  and  thick  clouds  covered  the 
sky.  The  short  afternoon  had  verged  on  close 
toward  evening,  the  dusky  coming  of  which  was 
already  perceived  by  Anna,  over  whose  feelings  a 
deeper  shadow  fell  as  her  eye  noted  the  rapid 
decline  of  day. 

Following,  the  direction  given  her,  she  turned 
off  from  Chestnut  street,  and  passed  down  to  Wal- 
nut street,  up  which  she  walked  rapidly.  In  less 
than  five  minutes  she  was  before  an  elegant  dwell- 
ing, on  the  door-plate  of  which  she  read  the  name 
MASON  GRANT,  with  a  thrill  that  passed  through 
her  whole  frame.  She  did  not  ring  the  bell  at  ^ 

once,  but  passed  on  to  collect  her  thoughts  and 

>  > 


w< 


r  i 

i  >. 

/  64  THE    HEIRESS. 

£  determine  how  she  should  address  herself  to  her 

aunt.  On,  on  she  went,  square  after  square,  unable 
to  settle  any  thing  in  her  mind. 

"Oh,  if  I  had  not  promised  my  mother,  and 
there  was  any  roof  here  to  shelter  me,  no  matter 
how  humble  it  might  be,  and  any  means  by  which 
1  could  support  myself,  no  matter  how  hard  the 

'•I  labor,  most  gladly  would  I  shrink  away  from  these 

•!  proud  relatives!" 

i>  This  was  the  final  conclusion  of  her  thoughts, 

as  she  stopped  suddenly  and  wrung  her  hands,  for- 
getting at  the  instant  that  she  was  in  the  street,  and 
her  motions  liable  to  attract  attention. 

Recovering  herself,  however,  she  lifted  her  eyes, 
and  perceived  that  the  shadows  of  approaching 

;'  evening  were  growing  more  and  more  distinct.   A 

shudder  passed  over  her.     Quickly  turning,  she 


retraced  her  steps,  and,  without  allowing  her  ima- 


>  gination  to  dwell  upon  the  shock  of  a  first  inter- 

view with  her  aunt,  a  thing  from  which  she  shrunk 

s  with  an  unconquerable  reluctance,  she  kept  steadily 

on  until  she  again  stood  in  front  of  the  house  of 
Mason  Grant.  But  she  could  not  ascend  the  steps 
that  led  to  the  door  of  this  elegant  mansion.  Her 
thoughts  again  became  confused,  and  again  she 
passed  the  house,  and  walked  on  for  nearly  two 

i  squares.  She  then  paused,  stood  thoughtful  for 

two  or  three  minutes,  and  finally  turned  and  went 
slowly  back.  Again  she  was  before  the  dwelling 
of  her  aunt,  and  again  she  stopped  irresolute.  At 
length  she  ascended  the  steps,  and  timidly  rung 
the  bell — or  rather  made  an  effort  to  do  so;  but 
she  had  exerted  too  little  strength,  the  bell  did  not 
really  answer  to  her  hand.  For  nearly  five  minutes 


THE    HEIRESS.  65 

she  stood  as  if  fixed  to  the  spot,  but  no  one  came 
to  the  door.  She  did  not  attempt  to  ring  again. 
Her  heart  had  failed  her.  Slowly  she  at  length 
descended  the  steps,  and  moved  down  the  street,  ? 

turning  every  few  paces  to  see  if  the  door  should  <; 

open. 

It  was  nearly  dark,  already  the  watchmen  had 
lit  their  lamps,  and  the  street  was  filled  with  per- 
sons wending  their  way  homeward  after  having 
finished  the  labors  of  the  day.  Anna  had  walked 
on  for  a  short  distance,  when  she  perceived  that 
night  was  fast  closing  in.  She  stopped  quickly, 
while  a  tremor  ran  through  her  frame. 

"  I  must  do  it.  There's  no  hope  for  me,"  she 
at  length  said,  turning  back  and  approaching  the 
house  she  had  more  than  once  hesitated  to  enter. 
Without  giving  herself  time  to  waver  again  in  her 
resolution,  Anna  passed  quickly  up  the  steps  and 
rung  the  bell  with  a  strong  hand.  The  door  was 
soon  opened. 

"Can  1  see  Mrs. Grant?"  she  asked,  in  a  faltei- 
ing  voice. 

"  Come  in,  miss,  and  I  will  see." 

Anna  entered. 

44  What  name  shall  I  say  ?" 

Anna's  cheek  flushed.   She  hesitated  a  moment. 

44  Tell  her  a  young  girl  wishes  to  speak  to  her." 

The  servant  left  her  in  the  parlor,  and  went  uj, 
stairs. 

44  A  young  woman  is  in  the  parlor,  and  wishei 
to  see  you,"  he  said,  on  opening  the  door  of  Mi» 
Grant's  room. 

44  Who  is  she?" 

44  She  didn't  give  me  her  name." 


66  THE    HEIRESS. 

«  What  does  she  want?" 
"  To  see  you,  ma'am." 


"  You  should  have  asked  her  name,  Jackson." 


« I  did,  ma'am." 
<)  "Humph!    What  kind  of  a  looking  person  is 

she?" 

"  She  looks  like  a  poor  young  girl." 

"  Somebody  after  work,  may-be.  Tell  her  I 
will  be  down  in  a  little  while." 

Anna  sunk  upon  a  chair,  in  the  richly  furnished 
parlor  into  which  the  servant  had  shown  her  her 
heart  fluttering  wildly.  It  was  several  minutes 
before  she  saw  objects  distinctly.  Every  external 
sense  was  partially  closed.  Then  her  eyes  wan- 
dered about  the  room,  and  she  observed,  with 
something  of  wonder,  the  elegance  and  splendor 
that  surrounded  her.  From  the  costly  furniture 
she  raised  her  eyes  to  the  walls  that  were  decorated 
with  pictures.  The  first  that  met  her  gaze  was  the 
portrait  of  a  man  who  seemed  to  have  just  passed 
the  prime  of  life.  Every  feature  of  the  face  was 
familiar  to  her  as  the  features  of  a  friend.  Who 
could  it  be  ?  Her  mother's  image  arose  in  her 
mind.  The  question  was  answered.  That  must 
be  her  brother's  likeness. 

"  This  is  indeed  my  aunt's  house !  How,  how 
will  she  receive  me?" 

These  words  were  scarcely  murmured,  when  the 
door  opened,  and  a  middle-aged  woman  entered. 
Anna  tried  to  rise,  but  she  had  not  the  strength  to 
do  so.  Mrs.  Grant,  for  she  it  was,  advanced  close 
to  her,  regarding  her,  as  she  did  so,  with  a  cold 
look  of  inquiry.  As  Anna  did  not,  because  she 
could  not  speak,  the  lady  said — 


THE    HEIRESS.  67 

tt  You  wish  to  see  me,  I  believe  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  was  timidly  replied. 

"On  what  business,  may  I  ask?" 

The  words  were  formal  and  cold  as  ice. 

"You  had  a  sister  named  Anna " 

«  What!"  And  Mrs.  Grant  started  as  if  a  pistol 
had  been  exploded  close  to  her  ear,  her  face  flush- 
ing, and  then  turning  quite  pale. 

Anna  arose,  and  looked  steadily  into  her  aunt's 
face,  (for  her  aunt  it  really  was.) 

"You  had  a  sister  named  Anna,"  she  repeat- 
ed.   "  She  removed  to  the  west  many  years  ago,  ,'• 
and " 

"  Who  are  you  that  speaks  to  me  thus  ?"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Grant,  in  an  angry  voice,  suddenly  ;> 
arousing  up,  and  casting  on  the  frightened  girl 
before  her  a  stern  look. 

"  The  daughter  of  Anna  Gray." 

'^Who?"  was  uttered  with  a  quick,  convulsive 
start. 

"The  daughter  of  Anna  Gray,"  repeated  the 
visiter.  $ 

"  And  who  is  Anna  Gray  ?"  this  was  said  with 
a  slight  sneer, — affected,  not  felt 

"  You  had  a  sister  named " 

"  How  do  you  know  that  I  had.  How  do  you 
know  me?" 

"Just  before  my  mother  died " 

"  When  did  she  die?"  quickly  added  Mrs.  Giant, 
thrown  off  her  guard. 

"  Less  than  a  month  since "  Annabuist  into 

tears  as  she  tremblingly  said  this,  but  recovering 
herself  as  quickly  as  possible,  she  added, 

"  And  on  her  death-bed  she  made  me  promise 


68  THE    HEIRESS. 

that  I  would  come  to  this  city,  seek  yon  out,  and 
throw  myself  upon  your  protection." 

"The  girl  is  surely  beside  herself!  This  is  a 
pretty  affair !  What  do  I  know  about  your  mother  ?" 

"Oh,  was  she  not  your  sister?" 

Anna  leaned  towards  Mrs.  Grant  with  an  im- 
ploring look. 

"My  sister,  indeed!  I  have  no  sister.  You 
have  been  deceived,  if  you  think  /  am  your  aunt. 
Go  and  seek  for  her  somewhere  else.  You  will 
not  find  her  here.  A  fine  affair,  truly !" 

Anna  had  already  risen  to  her  feet.  These 
words  caused  her  to  stagger  backwards  a  few 
paces,  and  lean  against  the  wall.  In  a  moment  or 
two  she  recovered  herself,  and  taking  a  long,  con- 
firming look  at  the  portrait  on  the  wall  that  so 
resembled  her  mother,  she  turned  from  the  pre- 
sence of  the  woman  who  had  basely  and  cruelly 
disowned  her  mother,  and  left  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XII.  5 

'/t 

DARKNESS  had  fallen  upon  the  face  of  nature, 
as  Anna  Gray  retired  from  the  house  of  her  aunt. 
The  wind  swept  coldly  along,  penetrating  her 
thin  garments  and  causing  her  to  shrink  in  the 
chilling  blast.  For  a  few  moments  she  stood,  ir- 
resolute, upon  the  pavement.  Then  she  moved 
down  the  street,  but  with  no  purpose  in  her  mind. 
Where  could  she  go  ?  She  was  alone  in  a  strange 
city,  and  it  was  night.  The  tears  gushed  from 
her  eyes  as  she  felt  the  sad  reality  of  her  condition 


THE    HEIRESS  W 

|  j 

On  she  went,  now,  as  her  mind  became  excited  j> 

with  anxious  fears,  walking  with  a  quick  pace, 
and  now,  as  despondency  threw  its  shadows  over 
her  heart,  pausing  or  lingering,  paralyzed  in  mind  ;> 

and  body. 

«  What  shall  I  do  ?     Where  shall  I  go  ?»  she 
at  length  ejaculated,  standing  suddenly  still,  and    .        b 
wringing  her  hands,  scarcely  conscious  of  what 
she  was  doing.     A  man  passed  her  at  the  moment,  j| 

and  she  became  aware  that  he  had  noticed  her.  ;> 

Her  heart  bounded  quickly.  The  man  looked 
back  several  times,  and  then  stopped,  and  turned  jj 

towards  her.  She  felt  as  if  chained  to  the  spot. 
She  wished  to  go  on,  but-was  unable  to  move.  $ 

The  man   approached,  until  within  a  few  steps.  «, 

3he  saw  his  face  distinctly.  He  was  an  old  man. 
With  a  quick  impulse  she  turned  away,  and  ran 
j;  down  the  street  at  a  rapid  pace,  not  pausing  until 
she  had  gone  nearly  half  a  square.  Then,  glanc- 
ing timidly  back,  she  perceived  that  the  stranger 
was  not  following  her. 

She  had  reached  Seventh  street,  when  she  again 
paused  to  think.  The  night  had  closed  in  quite 
dark,  for  heavy  clouds  obscured  the  sky,  and  the 
air  was  thick  and  humid.  It  did  not  rain,  although 
the  vapor  charged  atmosphere  was  rapidly  con- 
densing, in  a  cold  and  clammy  mist.  The  poci 
girl  was,  now,  completely  lost.  From  the  time 
she  had  left  the  cars  in  Market  street,  until  she 
found  the  house  of  her  aunt,  she  had  retained  a 
tolerably  correct  idea  of  the  relative  bearings  of 
the  different  localities  through  which  she  had 
passed.  But  all  had  now  faded  from  her  memory. 
She  was  completely  bewildered.  And,  as  there 


70  THE    HEIRESS. 

was  no  plan  of  the  city  in  her  mind,  there  was  no 
data  by  which  she  could  determine  where  she  was. 
This,  however,  mattered  but  little.  To  her,  one 
place  was  as  good  as  another.  She  knew  no  per- 
son in  the  whole  city — she  had  no  home. 

Fearing  that  she  might  again  attract  attention, 
.    Anna  walked  on  until  she  was  moving  along  the 
pavement  bounding    Independence  Square.     No 
light  beamed  from  any  house  opposite.      Every 
shutter  was  closed,  as  if  the  inmates  of  each  dwel- 
ling feared  that  some  portion  of  the  cheerful  rays 
that  lit  up  their  pleasant  homes,  might  beam  upon 
;>  the  dim  street,  and  chase  away  a  portion  of  its 

gloomy  shadows. 

But  few  persons  were  abroad  in  that  neighbor- 
hood. Anna  felt  a  sudden  alarm.  A  man  approach- 
ed, and  bent  down  to  look  into  her  face  as  he  drew 
up  to  her  side.  She  started,  and  ran.  But  he  did 
not  attempt  to  follow  her.  With  a  heart  fluttering 
like  a  newly  caught  bird,  she  hurried  on  until  she 
|;  passed  Fifth  street.  Lights  in  some  shop  windows, 

throwing  their  welcome  rays  upon  the  street,  re 
stored  her  to  some  degree  of  calmness,  after  she 
had  glanced  hastily  back,  and  assured  herself  that 
no  one  was  coming  after  her. 

At  Fourth  street  she  stopped  again.  All  was 
dark  ahead,  and  dark  to  the  right.  But  many 
lights  beamed  from  the  windows  as  her  eyes  turned 
northward.  Up  Fourth  street  she  turned,  and 
walked  on  until  Chestnut,  Market,  Arch  and  Race 
streets  were  successively  passed. 

"  But  where  am  I  going  ?"  she  said,  on  gaining 
this  point,  stopping,  and  clasping  her  hands  to- 


THE    HEIRESS.  71 

gether.  "  1  cannot  walk  the  streets  all  night.  I 
must  find  a  shelter  somewhere — But  where  ?" 

A  deeply  drawn  sigh  was  the  only  answer  her 
heart  could  make.  Just  then,  from  a  house  op- 
posite, came  the  sound  of  merry  voices — the  voices 
of  happy  maidens.  Tears  rushed  to  the  eyes  of 
the  homeless  girl,  and  fell  rapidly  over  her  cheeks. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  thought,  "  they  will  give  me  a  s 

place  to  rest  in  for  one  night,"  and  following  the 
impulse  that  awakened  this  thought,  she  moved 
across  the  street,  and  lifted  her  hand  to  the  knocker. 

But,  recollecting  how  strange  would  seem  her 
request,  and  how  improbable  her  story,  she  shrunk 
away  from  the  door,  and  again  moved  along  the 
street,  more  deeply  conscious  than  ever  of  her 
hopeless  condition.  She  had  not  gone  many  steps  ' 

before  the  same  happy  voices  that  had  inspired 
her  with  a  momentary  hope,  fell  again  upon  her 
ear.  Again  she  stopped,  listened,  turned,  and 
walked  back,  drawn  by  an  impulse  that  she  did 
not  attempt  to  resist.  Once  more  she  lifted  her 
hand  to  the  knocker,  and  now  she  let  it  fall,  but 
with  a  timid  and  scarce  heard  summons.  In  a 
little  while,  the  door  was  opened  by  a  middle-aged 
woman.  Anna  looked  in  her  face,  but  was  unable 
to  speak. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  the  woman  asked,  in 
rather  repulsive  tones,  seeing  that  the  person  who 
had  knocked  hesitated  to  make  known  her  busi- 

ss. 

"  I  am  a  young  girl,  alone  in  a  strange  city,  and 
without  a  single  friend,  or  a  place  to  lay  my  head, 
will  you  not  shelter  me  for  only  one  night  ?"  Anna 
said,  in  quick,  low,  half  distinct,  trembling  tonea 


ness. 


72  THE    HEIRESS 

*  >  ' 

The  door  was  instantly  closed  in  her  face.  She 
stood  again,  in  the  midst  of  a  strange  city,  alone. 

The  woman  who  had  thus  repulsed  her,  after  shut- 
ting the  door,  retired  into  a  small  parlor,  where  were 
assembled  about  a  dozen  young  women,  and  one 
or  two  who  had  passed  the  prime  of  life.  They 
were  quilting,  and  were  full  of  life  and  merriment 

"  Who  was  it,  Mrs.  Speare  ?"  asked  an  indivi- 
dual of  the  company,  looking  up. 

"  Humph !  Such  a  one  I  hope  none  of  you  may 
ever  be,"  was  the  reply. 

Curiosity  was  instantly  excited. 

"  Who  was  it,  Mrs.  Speare  ?  Who  was  it  ?  fell 
from  every  lip. 

The  face  of  Mrs.  Speare  became  serious. 

"  Some  wretched  creature,  who  looked  as  young 
as  any  one  here,  asking  for  a  place  to  sleep." 

Every  countenance  became  sober. 

"  What  did  you  say  to  her  ?"  asked  an  elderly 
woman,  taking  off  her  spectacles,  and  letting  them 
rest  upon  the  quilt  at  which  she  had  been  at  work. 

"  Nothing  at  all.     I  shut  the  door  in  her  face." 

No  one  spoke.  But  Mrs.  Speare  felt  as  dis- 
tinctly as  if  every  tongue  had  uttered  it,  that  all 
disapproved  of  what  she  had  done. 

"  It  would  be  a  very  foolish  thing,  indeed,"  she 
said,  by  way  of  justification,  "  to  take  into  one's 
house  a  stranger,  at  night,  who  comes  with  a  tale 
of  being  alone  and  friendless  in  a  great  city  like 
this.  Innocent  persons  are  not  without  friends, 
and  guilty  ones  don't  deserve  to  have  any." 

"  Did  she  say  that  she  was  a  stranger  and 
friendless  ?"  asked  the  old  lady  who  had  before 
spoken. 


THE   HEIRESS.  73 

"Yes.  She  said  that  she  was  a  young  girl, 
alone,  in  a  strange  city,  without  a  single  friend, 
or  a  place  where  she  could  lay  her  head.  But 
any  body  could  say  that.  To  me  it  sounds  like 
a  very  improbable  story." 

The  other  sighed,  took  up  her  spectacles,  wiped 
them,  and  placing  them  on  her  head,  bent  again 
over  the  square  she  was  quilting,  but  made  no  re- 
ply. Mrs.  Speare  ran  on  about  the  girl  she  had 
turned  from  her  door,  and  said  many  things  by  way 
of  self  justification.  But  no  one  took  sides  with 
her.  The  merry  laugh  did  not  again  echo  through 
the  room.  All  felt  pained  to  think  that  there  was, 
at  the  very  time  they  were  blessed  with  home  and 
friends,  a  poor  girl  wandering  the  streets  without 
a  house  to  shelter  her.  Before  ten  o'clock,  they 
separated. 

Anna,  so  soon  as  she  could  recover  her  thoughts, 
after  this  repulse,  went  on  again,  but  hopeless. 
The  anguish  she  had  before  felt,  subsided.  She 
was  prepared  to  await  the  issue,  calmly.  On,  on, 
she  went,  for  nearly  half  an  hour,  seeing  nothing 
around  her,  and  fearing  nothing.  At  .last,  loud 
voices  aroused  her.  She  looked  about.  She  had 
reached  the  extreme  limits  of  the  city.  Only  a 
few  houses  were  thinly  scattered  around.  A  group 
of  men  were  no  great  distance  ahead. 

All  her  fears  quickly  returned.  With  a  throb- 
bing heart,  she  retraced,  hurriedly  her  steps,  until 
she  entered  the  more  thickly  settled  districts. 

By  this  time  she  felt  so  exhausted,   that   she 

could  scarcely  move  on.     Her  head  ached  with  a 

blinding  intensity;  and  fainting  flushes  would  ever 

and  anon  pass  over  her,  compelling  her,  sometimes 

G 


r 


74  THE    HEIRESS. 


to  patse,  in  order  to  prevent  herself  from  falling 
forward.     Wearily  she  dragged  herself  along  until 
J  she  reached  Callowhill  street.     The  shelter  of  the 

market  house  tempted  her.     She  could  rest  there, 
perhaps,  and  sleep,  perhaps  die — it  mattered  not. 


Sinking  upon  a  butcher's  block,  she  drooped  her 
head  upon  the  stall  near  which  it  stood,  and  spite 
of  all  the  discomfort  by  which  she  was  surrounded, 
and  the  consciousness  of  her  exposed  condition, 
was  soon  fast  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  elderly  woman,  who  had  expressed  more 
strongly  by  her  manner  than  in  words,  her  dis- 
approval of  Mrs.  Speare's  conduct  in  shutting  the 
door  so  rudely  in  the  face  of  a  stranger  who  had 
asked  humbly  for  shelter,  felt  troubled  whenever 
a  thought  of  the  incident  crossed  her  mind.  The 
£  reader  will  understand  why  this  was  so,  when 

^  told,  that  she  had  a  child  who  was  wandering  in 

forbidden  paths.  Mrs.  Grand,  that  was  her  name, 
started  for  home,  unaccompanied  by  any  one, 
about  half  past  nine  o'clock.  She  lived  in  Callow- 
hill  street,  not  far  from  Second. 

She  could  not  help  looking  around  her,  con- 
stantly, and  narrowly  observing  every  female  she 
met.  As  she  passed  into  Callowhill  street,  her 
eye  ran  along  the  market  house. 

"  What  is  that  ?"  she  said,  pausing  as  she  saw 
something  she  was  unable  to  make  out  distinctly 


THE   HEIRESS.  75 

Crossing  over  to  the  market  house,  she  walked 
down  it  for  a  few  yards. 

"  Bless  me !"  she  ejaculated,  stopping  by  the 
stall  upon  which  Anna  had  sunk  down  exhausted, 
and  where  she  was  now  sleeping  soundly.  "  It 
is  a  woman !  And  a  young  creature,  too,"  she 
added,  a  new  interest  awakened  in  her  heart.  <! 

"  Perhaps  the  same  that  Mrs.  Speare  turned  from 
her  door  so  thoughtlessly." 

Mrs.  Grand  laid  her  hand  upon  Anna,  and  spoke 
to  her  kindly.  But  even  kind  words,  that  half  an 
hour  before  would  have  been  so  welcome,  were 
not  heard.  More  effectual  means  were  taken  to 
arouse  the  sleeping  girl. 

"  Mercy  !  where  am  I  ?"  she  exclaimed,  starting 
up,  on  being  heavily  shaken  by  Mrs.  Grand,  and 
looking  eagerly  at  the  individual  who  had  broken 
in  upon  a  slumber,  that  was  sweet,  for  it  brought 
unconsciousness. 

"  In  a  very  unfit  place  for  a  young  girl  like 
you,"  replied  Mrs.  Grand,  in  as  firm  a  voice  as 
she  could  assume. 

"  Would  to  heaven  I  had  a  better  place  in  which 
to  find  rest — even  if  it  were  the  rest  that  knows  no 
waking!"  returned  Anna,  in  mournful  accents. 

*'  Who  are  you  ?  And  what  are  you  doing  here  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Grand. 

"  I  am  a  stranger  in  the  city.  I  came  here  to 
seek  friends ;  but  have  found  none." 

"  Will  you  go  home  with  me  ?" 

'•  With  you  ?"  Anna  looked  earnestly  into  the 
face  of  Mrs.  Grand,  upon  which  the  light  of  a 
lamp  fell.  "  Yes,  if  you  will  only  shelter  me 
for  a  single  night,  and  then  advise  me  how  to  act." 


I  <f 

(  70  THE    HEIRESS. 

"  Come  then."  And  Mrs.  Grand  placed  het 
hand  upon  the  arm  of  Anna,  who  did  not  hesitate 
a  moment  to  accept  her  kind  offer.  They  walked 
on  in  silence,  until  they  came  to  a  small  house 
near  to  Second  street,  the  residence  of  Mrs.  Grand. 

As  soon  as  they  had  entered,  the  woman  who 
had  taken  Anna  home  with  her,  assisted  her  to  re- 
move her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  then,  after  looking 
[1  her  for  some  time  in  the  face,  to  read  her  character 

'•>  and  the  quality  of  her  mind,  as  far  as  it  was  pos- 

sible for  her  to  do  so,  said, 

"  And  now,  what  is  your  name,  child  ?" 

"  Anna  Gray." 

"  Where  are  you  from  ?" 

"  Cincinnati." 

"  Cincinnati.     Are  you  sure  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  I  left  there  two  weeks  ago,  and 
arrived  in  this  city  to-day." 

"  That  is  a  long  journey  for  one  like  you  to 
take.  Who  came  with  you  ?" 

"  No  one.     I  came  alone." 

Mrs.  Grand  looked  incredulous.  Anna  saw  and 
^  felt  this,  and  the  color  rose  to  her  face." 

"  It  may  seem  strange  to  you,"  she  said,  in  a 
voice  that  trembled,  "  but  it  is  true.  My  mother 
died  a  few  weeks  ago,  and,  on  her  death  bed,  made 
me  promise  to  come  immediately  to  Philadelphia, 
and  seek  out  her  brother  and  sister,  if  living,  and 
throw  myself  upon  their  protection.  I  left  the 
west,  with  barely  enough  money  to  bring  me  to 
this  city.  I  arrived  to  day,  and  found  my  aunt, 
but  she  called  me  an  impostor,  denied  that  my 
mother  was  her  sister,  and  sent  me  from  her  pre- 
sence. It  was  dark  when  I  left  her  house,  and  I 


THE    HEIRESS.  77  { 

f 

have  since  wandered  about  the  street  homeless 
and  hopeless,  until,  overwearied,  I  could  bear  up 
no  longer,  and  sunk  down  exhausted  where  you 
found  me  sleeping." 

The  simple  earnestness  of  this  brief  narrative, 
more  than  half  satisfied  Mrs.  Grand  of  its  truth. 
She,  however,  questioned  Anna  closely,  and  led 
her  on  to  relate  the  principal  incidents  of  her  life, 
and  the  minutest  particulars  of  all  that  had  occur- 
red since  her  arrival  in  the  city.  Late  as  was  the 
hour,  she  prepared  for  her  some  refreshments,  and 
then  took  her  into  a  small  but  neatly  arranged 
bed-room,  and  bidding  her  good  night,  left  her 
alone. 

Since  she  had  been  aroused  from  her  brief  repose 
in  the  market  house,  the  mind  of  the  unhappy  girl 
had  become  clear  and  calm.  After  Mrs.  Grand 
retired,  she  sat  down  and  mused  long  over  the 
events  of  the  day.  So  anxious  and  alarmed  had 
she  been  since  she  found  herself  homeless  and  a 
wanderer  in  the  streets  of  a  large  city,  that  she 
had  been  unable  to  think  soberly  about  any  thing. 
Now  she  revolved  in  her  mind  the  occurrences 
which  have  been  related,  and  sought  to  arrive  at 
some  definite  conclusion  in  regard  to  her  future 
course.  But  this  was  a  vain  effort.  Her  aunt — 
she  was  satisfied  that  Mrs.  Grant  was  her  mother's 
sister — had  repulsed  her  with  much  feeling.  Why 
should  she  do  this  ?  What  motive  could  prompt 
so  cruel  an  action  ?  Pride  ?  It  did  not  seem  pos- 
sible that  this  could  be  the  reason.  But,  what 
other  could  there  be  ?  Anna  could  think  of  none. 
She  had  seen  the  portrait  of  her  mother's  brother 
— was  he  living?  And  if  so,  ought  she  not  to 


78  THE    HEIRESS. 

seek  him  out,  and  make  herself  known  to  him  ? 
For  hours  before  she  at  length  fell  asleep,  were 
her  thoughts  thus  busy.  But  she  could  arrive  at 
no  fixed  conclusion. 

It  was  long  after  day  light  when  Anna  awoke 
on  the  next  morning.  She  was  dressed,  and  sit- 
ting by  the  window  when  her  kind-hearted  pro- 
tector came  in.  A  deep  crimson  covered  her  face, 
as  she  looked  up,  and  then  suffered  her  eyes  to 
droop  to  the  floor.  She  felt  that  the  circumstances 
under  which  they  had  met  were  such  as  to  create  ^ 
suspicion  in  regard  to  her,  and  this  thought  caused 
a  degree  of  confusion  calculated  to  awaken  doubt 
in  almost  any  mind.  Mrs.  Grand  looked  at  her 
closely  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  said  in  a  kind 
voice, 

"  Did  you  rest  well,  Anna  ?" 

"  O  yes,  ma'am,  very  well,"  she  returned,  tears 
coming  to  her  eyes.  ff 

"  Do  you  feel  better  than  you  did  last  night  ?"  ;j 

"  A  great  deal  better.     My  head  ache  is  entirely 
gone,  and  I  am  very  much  refreshed." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it.     Come,  breakfast  is  all  ready."         ^ 

Anna  went  down  stairs  with  Mrs.  Grand,  and 
shared  with  her  her  morning  meal.     After  they  had 
risen  from  the  table,  and  while  Mrs.  Grand  was          ' 
occupied    in   washing   up  and   putting  away  the 
breakfast  things,  Anna  said —  j, 

"  The  great  favor  that  you  have  shown  a  perfect 
stranger,  emboldens  me  to  ask  still  another." 

"  What  is  it,  child  ?    Speak  out  freely,"  replied 
Mrs.  Grand,  with  a  look  and  tone  of  encouragement. 

"  I  have  told  you,  frankly,  all  the  circumstances 
by  which  I  am  now  surrounded.     1  need  one  to 


L 


THE    HEIAESS.  79 

advise  and  direct  me.     I  am  willing  to  earn  my 

own  living  by  my  own  labor ;  but  where  shall  I 

go  for  employment  ?     Will  you  think  for  me  ?     1  ;' 

will  be  governed  by  your  directions,  for  besides 

you,  there  is  not  another  living  being  in  this  city 

to  whom  I  can  look  for  counsel." 

"  All  that  I  can  do,  my  young  friend,  shall  be 
freely  done,"  replied  Mrs.  Grand.  "  Jn  the  mean 
time,  remain  where  you  are,  in  welcome.  Jf  no- 
thing better  offers,  you  can  assist  me  in  sewing 
for  awhile.  I  earn  my  own  support,  by  the  labor 
of  my  own  hands.  If  you  can  sew  quickly,  and  <! 

are  willing  to  work,  you  will  be  no  burden  to  me." 

"  Oh,  gladly  will  I  devote  to  you  all  my  time, 
if  you  will  give  me  but  a  home,"  Anna  replied, 
with  warmth. 

"  You  tell  me  you  have  a  trunk  at  the  rail-road 
depot  ?"  Mrs.  Grand  said,  after  a  pause. 

"Yes.     My  trunk  is  in  the  office  there." 

"  Had  you  not  better  have  it  brought  here  ?" 

"  If  you  are  willing." 

"  I  am,  certainly.  Do  you  know  your  way 
there  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am.     But  you  can  direct  me." 

"  Suppose  I  go  with  you  ?" 

"  It  must  be  a  long  distance  from  here.  I  am 
afraid  it  is  too  far  for  you  to  go." 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  accompany  you  ?'" 

"  Yes,  above  all  things,"  quickly  replied  Anna. 

About  ten  o'clock  Mrs.  Grand  and  Anai  went 
for  the  trunk.  They  had  it  taken  to  the  house  of 
the  fr./mer. 

So  far,  every  thing  tended  to  confirm  in  the 
mind  of  Mrs.  Grand  the  statement  made  by  the 


i 

s 

78  THE    HEIRESS. 

seek  him  out,  and  make  herself  known  to  him  ? 
For  hours  before  she  at  length  fell  asleep,  were 
her  thoughts  thus  busy.  But  she  could  arrive  at 
no  fixed  conclusion. 

It  was  long  after  day  light  when  Anna  awoke 
on  the  next  morning.  She  was  dressed,  and  sit- 
.;  ting  by  the  window  when  her  kind-hearted  pro- 

tector came  in.  A  deep  crimson  covered  her  face, 
as  she  looked  up,  and  then  suffered  her  eyes  to 
droop  to  the  floor.  She  felt  that  the  circumstances 
under  which  they  had  met  were  such  as  to  create 
suspicion  in  regard  to  her,  and  this  thought  caused 
a  degree  of  confusion  calculated  to  awaken  doubt 
in  almost  any  mind.  Mrs.  Grand  looked  at  her 
closely  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  said  in  a  kind 
I>  voice, 

"  Did  you  rest  well,  Anna  ?" 

"  O  yes,  ma'am,  very  well,"  she  returned,  tears 
coming  to  her  eyes. 

"  Do  you  feel  better  than  you  did  last  night  ?" 

"  A  great  deal  better.  My  head  ache  is  entirely 
gone,  and  I  am  very  much  refreshed." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it.     Come,  breakfast  is  all  ready." 

Anna  v/ent  down  stairs  with  Mrs.  Grand,  and 

!;  shared  with  her  her  morning  meal.     After  they  had 

risen  from  the  table,  and  while  Mrs.  Grand  was 

occupied   in  washing  up  and   putting  away  the 

breakfast  things,  Anna  said — 

•"  The  great  favor  that  you  have  shown  a  perfect 
stranger,  emboldens  me  to  ask  still  another." 

"  What  is  it,  child  ?  Speak  out  freely,"  replied 
Mrs.  Grand,  with  a  look  and  tone  of  encouragement. 

"  I  have  told  you,  frankly,  all  the  circumstances 
by  which  I  am  now  surrounded.  I  need  one  to 


1 


THE    HEIAESS.  79  ^ 

advise  and  direct  me.  I  am  willing  to  earn  my 
own  living  by  my  own  labor ;  but  where  shall  I 
go  for  employment  ?  Will  you  think  for  me  ?  1 
will  be  governed  by  your  directions,  for  besides 
you,  there  is  not  another  living  being  in  this  city 
to  whom  I  can  look  for  counsel." 

"  All  that  I  can  do,  my  young  friend,  shall  be 
freely  done,"  replied  Mrs.  Grand.     "  In  the  mean 
time,  remain  where  you  are,  in  welcome.     If  no- 
thing better  offers,  you  can  assist  me  in  sewing 
|    .      for  awhile.     I  earn  my  own  support,  by  the  labor 

of  my  own  hands.     If  you  can  sew  quickly,  and  $ 

are  willing  to  work,  you  will  be  no  burden  to  me." 

"  Oh,  gladly  will  I  devote  to  you  all  my  time, 
if  you  will  give  me  but  a  home,"  Anna  replied, 
with  warmth. 

"  You  tell  me  you  have  a  trunk  at  the  rail-road 
depot  ?"  Mrs.  Grand  said,  after  a  pause. 

"  Yes.     My  trunk  is  in  the  office  there." 

"  Had  you  not  better  have  it  brought  here  ?" 

"  If  you  are  willing.'1  .  <; 

"  I  am,  certainly.  Do  you  know  your  way 
there  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am.     But  you  can  direct  me." 

"  Suppose  I  go  with  you  ?" 

"  It  must  be  a  long  distance  from  here.  I  am 
afraid  it  is  too  far  for  you  to  go." 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  accompany  you  ?'" 

"  Yes,  above  all  things,"  quickly  replied  Anna. 

About  ten  o'clock  Mrs.  Grand  and  Anna  went 
for  the  trunk.  They  had  it  taken  to  the  house  of 
the  fr^mer. 

So  far,  every  thing  tended  to  confirm  in  the 
mind  of  Mrs.  Grand  the  statement  made  by  the 


I 

88  THE    HEIRESS. 

"  That  is  a  vain  hope,"  she  said.  "  The  girl 
knows,  or  suspects  the  truth,  and  I  fear  we  can- 
not get  rid  of  her.  What  I  most  dread  is,  that  she 
will  find  out  Joseph.  In  that  event,  all  is  over." 

'  Yes,  all  will  be  over,  then.  He  will  insist 
.pon  an  immediate  payment  of  the  legacy,  which 
cannot  be  done.' 

"  Let  him  pay  it  himself,  then ;  he  is  able,  and 
equally  responsible  with  yourself.  If  it  comes  to 
that,  he  will  not  be  so  very  eager  for  an  immediate 
adjustment.  In  the  meantime,  the  girl  can  be  kept 
in  ignorance  of  the  real  truth,  long  enough  to 
arrange  matters." 

"  Long  or  short,  Mary,"  returned  her  husband, 
in  a  quick  voice,  "  I  never  can  nor  will  beggar  my 
children  for  the  sake  of  this  girl,  or  any  one  else. 
I  am  not,  if  all  my  affairs  were  brought  to  an  issue, 
worth  sixty  thousand  dollars." 

"  Then  Anna's  child  cannot  and  shall  not  have 
a  dollar.  She  has  been  raised  to  help  herself,  and 
let  her  still  continue  to  do  so.  To  make  her  sud- 
denly rich,  would  be  as  great  an  evil  as  to  reduce 
our  children  to  poverty." 

There  was  an  angry  bitterness  in  Mrs.  Grant's 
>  tone  as  she  spoke. 

"  But,  stave  off  this  advertisement,  day  after  day, 
if  possible.  You  may  yet  succeed  in  delaying  it 
long  enough  to  make  our  position  secure." 

"'Depend  upon  it,  I  will  try.  Your  brother  will 
have  to  be  much  more  decided  and  peremptory 
than  he  now  is,  before  I  yield." 

When  Mr.  Grant  went  to  his  store,  he  found 
Markland  already  there.  He  was  at  a  desk, 
writing-  - 


THE    HEIRESS.  83 

* 

"  Here  is  the  form  of  an  advertisement,  Mason," 
he  said,  handing  the  merchant  a  paper  as  the  latter 

came  in.     Mr.  Grant  took  it  and  read — 

.  < 

HEIRS  WANTED. — If  Mrs.  Anna  Gray,  daughter  of 
the  late  Thomas  Markland  of  Philadelphia,  or  any 
of  her  children,  be  living,  this  is  to  inform  them,  that 
under  the  will  of  paid  Thomas  Markland,  they  are 
entitled  to  a  legacy  of  sixty  thousand  dollars.     By 
the  provisions  of  the  will,  the  heirs  must  be  forth- 
coming before  the  1st  of  November,  18 — ,  else  the  <; 
sum  above  named  will  revert  to  the  residuary  le-  ; 
gatee. 

JOSEPH  MARKLAND,  )  Executors  of  the  latf 

)  Thomas  Markland  ', 

»'  If  you  like  the  form,  just  add  your  name  to 
the  advertisement,  and  have  it  inserted  in  The 

Gazette,  and  The Advertiser,  to-morrow 

morning,"  said  Mr.  Markland,  after  he  had  read  it 
to  Grant. 

The  merchant  took  the  paper,  and  conned  il 
over,  deliberately. 

"  Yes;  I  suppose  this  covers  the  whole  ground. 
I  will  see  that  it  is  done." 

"  You  won't  neglect  it,  Mason  ?" 

"Neglect  it?"  in  a  half  offended  tone.    "No, 
certainly  not.    Why  should  I  neglect  it?"  $ 

"  Very  well.    We  will  see  what  comes  of  this," 
said  the  old  man  to  himself,  as  he  left  the  store  of  <; 

his  brother-in-law,  and,  scarcely  thinking  why, 
walked  up  Second  street,  until  he  came  to  the 
neighborhood  where  he  had  seen  Anna  in  thfi  >; 

morning.  His  eyes  were  all  about  him,  but  the 
form  he  so  much  desired  to  see,  did  not  present 
itself.  With  a  feeling  of  disappointment,  he  re- 

t 


84  THE    HEIRESS. 

turned  home,  where  he  did  not  arrhe  until  after 
dark.  Tea  had  been  serve  d  earlier  than  usual,  and 
Mr.  Grant  had  gone  out  Mrs.  Grant  was  in  her 
own  room.  Ella  waited  on  her  uncle  at  the  table; 
but  was  silent.  There  was  a  look  and  manner  ' 
about  her  father  and  mother  that  had,  insensibly, 
thrown  a  shade  of  pensiveness  over  her  gay  young 
heart.  Mr.  Markland's  mind  was  too  much  oc- 
cupied to  notice  this.  After  eating  lightly,  he 
arose,  took  a  lamp,  and  retired  to  his  own  apart- 
ment 

"  Strange  that  the  thought  of  that  girl  should 
press  itself  so  constantly  upon  me !"  he  said,  seat- 
ing himself  by  a  table  in  a  musing  attitude.  "Can 

it  be  possible  that  she  is .    No,  I  will  not 

think  so.  It  is  mere  romance.  And  yet,  in  real 
life,  things  have  occurred  far  more  improbable. 
There  must  be  some  cause  for  this  suddenly 
awakened  interest  in  a  total  stranger.  Anna's 
child'1  No!  Still  even  that  may  be.  Oh,  what 
would  I  not  give  to  know  the  truth!  Ah  me! 
What  a  heavy  burden  of  reproaches  is  mine !  How 
could  I  have  grown  cold  and  indifferent  towards 
one  so  worthy  the  name  of  WOMAX  as  my  twin- 
sister?  Pride,  pride — thou  art  a  hard-hearted 
demon  !  My  life  for  years  seems  to  have  been  a 
false  dream — a  state  of  moral  insensibility.  But  1 
am  awake  now — fully  awake.  And  if  justice  can 
be  done,  it  shall  be  done.  To-morrow,  the  notice 
that  should  have  been  given  years  ago,  will  be 
made.  If  this  young  stranger  be  Anna's  child — 
strange  thought! — she  will  at  once  come  forward 
and  prove  her  identity.  She  is  innocent;  of  that 
I  am  sure.  And  innocence  is  the  groind-work  of 


THE   HEIRESS.  85 

all  virtues  and  graces.  But,  in  a  city  like  this,  will' 
snares  all  around,  who  can  tell  how  soon  her  un 
wary  feet  may  be  entangled  ?  Heaven  defend  her !' 


CHAPTER  XV. 

< 

IT  was  hardly  sunrise,  the  next  morning,  when 
Mr.  Markland  descended  from  his  room,  and  went 
;•  to  the  door  for  the  newspapers.  He  first  opened 
the  k'  Advertiser,"  and  ran  his  eye  hurriedly  ovei 
it.  But  nowhere  could  he  find  the  notification  foi 
which  he  was  in  search.  The  "  Gazette"  was 
next  examined,  but  with  no  better  success. 

"  This  is  too  bad !"  exclaimed  the  old  man, 
throwing  down  the  papers,  and  beginning  to  walk 
the  floor  with  a  quick,  nervous  step.  "Too  bad! 
What  can  he  mean  by  such  outrageous  conduct? 
Does  he  really  intend  to  put  me  off  still,  as  he 
has  done  for  years  ?  Has  he  actually  a  design  in 
all  this  ?  We  shall  see.  That  advertisement  must 
and  shall  be  made,  and  that,  too,  forthwith.  All 
is  not  right,  I  begin  to  fear.  Mason  has  had  the 
use  of  this  money  so  long,  with  the  hope,  proba- 
bly, that  it  would,  in  the  end,  be  possessed  of 
right  by  his  children,  that  he  has  come  to  look  on 
it  as  already  his  own.  But,  if  Anna  or  any  of  her 
children  are  above  ground,  this  illusion  must  van- 
ish from  before  him.  We  shall  see !  We  shall  see !" 

Impatiently  did  Mr.  Markland  wait,  until  his 
brother-in-law  came  down. 

"I  don't  see  that  advertisement,  Mason,"  ha 

L "       J 


\  \ 

86  THE    HEIRESS. 

£  J 

said,  with  a  stern  look  and  voice,  pointing  to  the 
newspapers. 

"  No,"  replied  the  merchant,  blandly.  "  After 
you  went  out,  I  looked  more  carefully  over  the 
advertisement,  and  found  that  it  was  inaccurate  in 
its  statements." 

"  In  what  respect,  Mason  ?" 

"  In  one  respect,  at  least.    It  says  that  Mrs.  Anna 
Gray,  or  her  children,  are  entitled,  if  living,  to  a 
legacy." 
\  "Well?" 

"  This  you  know  is  a  mistake.    The  will  states 
j;  that  the  property  is  for  her  children,  if  she  should 

leave  any.     She  has  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

**  It  doesn't  matter  at  all.    Jf  Anna  is  living,  and 

has  children,  they  will  doubtless  share  with  her. 

If  she  is  living,  and  without  children, — I  should 

think  her  entitled  to  at  least  some  benefit  in  her 

£  father's  estate." 

"  The  will  is  explicit,  Joseph,  as  you  well  know. 
If  no  children  of  Anna's  are  found,  the  testator's 
'•}  will  was  that  the  property  should  go  to  my  child- 

ren ;  and  I  have  no  right  to  rob  them  of  a  dollar. 
And  of  course,  shall  never  consent  to  do  so." 
s  "  No  matter.     If  there  was  a  slight  error  in  the 

form,  it  need  not  have  delayed  the  notification.   It 
committed  no  one." 

"  Still,  it  is  much  better  to  be  correct  in  all  these 
matters.  I  wish  to  be  so." 

"Well,  well,"  was  the  old  man's  impatient  reply, 

<;  "  draw  up  an  advertisement  yourself,  and  word  it 

as  carefully  as  you  please.     If  it  gives  the  main 

facts,  I  will  sign  it.    But  there  must  be  no  more 

delay.     Remember  that.     To  speak  out  the  plain 


THE    HEIRESS.  87 

truth,  Mason,  I  don't  like  this  dilly  dallying,  if  I 
must  so  call  it.  This  putting  off  making  an  ad- 
vertisement on  one  pretence  and  another.  It  doesn't 
look  well.  The  thing  has  got  to  be  done,  and  it 
might  as  well  be  done  at  once,  without  further  par- 
lying  about  it.  It  can't  be  possible  that  you  wish  to  •; 
keep  this  money,  even  if  the  true  heirs  are  living." 

"  That  is  speaking  rather  plainly,  Joseph."  Mr. 
Grant's  face  crimsoned  over. 

"  It  is.  But,  much  as  I  wish  to  think  otherwise, 
appearances  force  me  to  this  involuntary  conclu- 
sion. Why  didn't  you  mention  this  defect  yester- 
day, when  I  handed  you  the  advertisement?" 

"  I  didn't  notice  it  then." 

"  Why  didn't  you  leave  word  for  me  to  that 
effect  last  evening.  I  would  have  put  it  all  right, 
and  had  it  out  this  morning  ?" 


"Humph!  I  didn't  see  that  it  was  a  matter  of 
s1  life  and  death."  <! 

"  It  may  be  a  matter  of  more  importance  than 
that,  Mason." 

"I  don't  know.  It  seems  to  me  that  you  have 
got  into  a  wonderful  hurry  all  at  once.  If  you  had 
been  so  disposed,  you  could  have  had  the  adver- 
tisement inserted  years  ago.  But  I  don't  know 
that  you  ever  showed  much  concern  about  it." 

"  I  left  the  thing  in  your  hands  too  much.  I 
t{  have  spoken  hundreds  of  times  about  this  legal 
notice,  but,  although  you  promised  as  many  times 
to  attend  to  it,  the  thing  was  never  done.  I  begin, 
really,  to  think  that  it  was  a  predetermined  system 
with  you.  To  say  the  least  of  it,  when  viewed 
in  connexion  with  your  present  apparent  shuffling, 
it  looks  very  much  like  it." 

i  ! 


88  THE    HEIRESS. 

"  Joseph !  You  musi'nt  speak  to  me  after  tha 
fashion."  The  merchant  was  excited. 

44  Mason — you  must'nt  make  me  a  party  to  any 
of  your  underhand  designs." 

14  I  tell  you,  that  I  will  not  allow  you  or  any 
one  else  to  make  such  insinuations  against  me," 
retorted  Mr.  Grant. 

"Put  it  out  of  my  power  to  conceive  such 
thoughts,  by  doing  your  duty  at  once  as  an  execu- 
tor of  my  father's  estate.  I  am  tried  beyond  my 
patience,  and  will  not  be  trifled  with  any  farther. 
I  had  set  my  heart  upon  seeing  that  advertisement 
this  morning.  I  had  reasons  for  wishing  to  have 
it  appear  just  at  this  time.  But  it  is  put  off  on  a 
frivolous  pretence — I  can  call  it  by  no  better  name. 
I  shall  be  in  to  see  you  immediately  after  break- 
fast. Have  the  form  ready,  and  we  will  both  sign 
it,  and,  to  prevent  any  more  delays,  I  will  make  a 
copy  myself,  and  take  the  advertisement  to  the 
printing  offices." 

"  Very  well.    Come  in  as  early  as  you  please." 

Mr.  Grant  turned  away  and  went  up  stairs. 

44  I  believe  your  brother  is  beside  himself  this 
morning,"  he  said  to  his  wife. 

44  He  didn't  find  the  advertisement  ?" 

44  No.  and  he  is  outrageous  about  it.  The  fact 
is,  the  thing  will  have  to  be  done;  but  I  tremble 
lor  the  result.  That  girl  will  surely  see  it.  Don't 
you  think  he  said  that  he  had  very  particular  rea- 
sons for  wanting  it  to  appear  this  morning.  What 
can  he  mean  ?  Is  it  possible  that  he  suspects  the 
girl  he  saw  in  the  street  to  be  Anna's  child.  It 
really  seems  so.  The  old  Boy  seems  tc  possess 
him." 


THE   HEIRESS.  89 

t. 

ft  Verily  he  does.  It  is  no  better  than  a  wish  to 
rob  our  children.  I  thought  he  had  some  affec- 
tion for  them.  But  it  seems  he  hasn't  a  particle 
Who  knows,  but  if  this  low-bocn  creature  is  found, 
he  will  leave  her  every  cent  of  his  money.  Oh,  I 
wish  she  had  been  dead  before  she  came  this  way 
to  ruin  all  our  best  hopes.  Too  bad !  too  bad !" 

"  Yes,  it  is  too  bad."  And  the  husband  fairly 
stamped  about  the  floor. 


"Can  nothing  be  done?    Must  the  advertise- 


"  I  have  thought  of  that.    But  your  brother  de- 


ment appear  ?" 

"  It  cannot  be  prevented.  If  I  put  it  off  another 
day,  he  will  publish  it  himself." 

"  Can't  you  word  it  so  that  it  will  not  attract 
much  notice  ?" 


. 

signs  to  hav«  it  tell,  and  will  not  be  satisfied  with 
any  thing  that  is  not  clear  and  explicit.  I  fear  that 
there  is  no  hope  for  us.  But,  let  the  worst  come 
to  the  worst.  Possession  is  nine  points  of  the 
law.  I  have  the  sixty  thousand  dollars,  and  let 
her  get  it  if  she  can !" 

Grant  set  his  teeth  firmly  together,  and  smiled 
with  a  grim  smile  of  defiance. 

"  Yes :  let  her  get  it  if  she  can.  Not  one  cent 
will  I  give  up." 

"  Trust  me  for  that." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

AFTER  the  silently  passed  morning  meal,  Mason 
Grant  left  the  house,  and,  with  his  eyes  upon  the 


90  THE   HEIRESS. 

ground,  walked  slowly  and  thoughtfully  to  his 
store. 

"  I  will  try  !t?  at  least.  There  is  nothing  like 
trying,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  raising  his  head 
with  an  air  of  confidence  after  he  had  passed  one 
half  the  distance.  "  I  have  heard  of  such  a  thing 
before.  If  it  can  only  be  done,  the  thing  is  safe ; 
though  it  is  a  ticklish  experiment.  But,  every  man 
has  his  price.  Money  is  a  strong  argument." 

Half  an  hour  after  he  arrived  at  the  store,  Mr. 
Markland  came  in.  His  face  wore  a  grave,  reso- 
lute expression.  The  form  of  the  advertisement 
;>  was  already  prepared. 

"  Will  that  do  ?"  asked  Grant,  after  the  old  man 
had  read  it  over." 

"Yes.  But  are  you  certain  there  is  not  some 
hidden  defect  in  it,  which  will  not  be  discovered 
until  it  is  too  late." 

"Joseph,  I  will  not  permit  you  to  talk  so!" 

"  No  matter.  I'll  take  it  in  myself,  and  then  I 
shall  be  sure  that  all  is  right." 

"  That  is  not  at  all  necessary.  I  will  see  that  it 
appears  to-morrow  morning." 

"  I  am  afraid  to  trust  you,  Mason  Grant."  The 
old  man  knit  his  brows  sternly. 

The  angry  feelings  of  the  merchant  came  near 
boiling  over.  But  he  controlled  himself  with  a 
strong  effort,  and  said,  with  a  forced  smile, 

"  You  are  unjust  to  me,  Mr.  Markland.  I  don't 
wish  to  delay  this  matter,  as  you  allege.  And 
now,  I  insist  upon  putting  this  advertisement  in 
myself,  to  show  you  that  you  are  in  error." 

Still  Markland  persisted. 

"I  then  claim  it  as  a  right,"  said  Grant    "It 


I 

THE    HEIRESS.  91 

f 

is  the  only  means  left  me  to  show  you  that  you  have 
wronged  me,  and  1  must  be  permitted  to  use  it." 

After  some  minutes  reflection,  Markland  at  length 
consented,  saying  as  he  did  so — 

"Remember!  If  this  advertisement  does  not 
appear  to-morrow  morning,  I  will,  before  the  day 
is  half  over,  have  it  posted  on  the  houses  and 
fences  all  over  the  city;  and  on  the  next  day,  have 
it  in  every  newspaper  that  is  published.  As  I  said 
before,  I  have  my  own  reasons  for  wishing  it  done 
immediately." 

"  Never  fear.  It  shall  be  done.  But  is  there 
any  use  in  having  it  in  more  than  one  paper." 

"  Certainly  there  is.  It  ought  to  appear  in  three 
or  four  papers.  And  especially  in  several  western 
papers.  But  two  will  answer  for  the  present.  If 
no  good  result  comes,  then  broader  wings  can  be 
given  to  it." 

Mr.  Markland  then  went  out. 

"  Two  papers,"  mused  Mason  Grant.  "  I  think 
one  can  be  managed ;  but  two  ?  I'm  afraid."  And 
he  shook  his  head. 

Business  requiring  immediate  attention  occupied 
him  for  an  hour.  After  he  was  free  from  this,  he 
wrote  a  note,  sealed  it,  and  sent  it  out  by  one  of 
•  his  clerks.  Half  an  hour  after,  a  man,  rather  com- 
monly dressed,  came  in  and  asked  for  him.  He 
was  directed  back  into  Mr.  Grant's  counting-room. 

"Good  morning,  Layton.  "  Take  a  chair,"  said 
the  merchant,  blandly. 

The  man  sat  down,  with  a  look  of  expectancy 
on  his  face. 

"  Do  you  know  he  pressman  at  the office  ?w 

tsked  Mr.  Grant 

! 


92  THE   HEIRESS. 

"Very  well,"  replied  the  man. 

"Intimately?" 

"  Yes.    I  have  known  him  for  ten  years." 

"  What  kind  of  a  man  is  he  ?" 

"  Clever.   But  a  little  free  in  his  way  of  living.** 

"  Drinks  ?» 

"  Yes.    Occasionally." 

"  Has  he  a  family  ?" 

«  Yes." 

«  Large  ?" 

"  A  wife  and  three  children." 

"  Hard  work  for  him  to  make  'em  comfortable, 
I  suppose  ?" 

"They  don't  live  in  much  splendor,  ha!  ha!" 

"I  suppose  not.  Very  well.  So  far  so  good. 
Fifty  dollars  would  be  an  object  to  that  man!" 

"  I  should  think  so ;  or  to  any  journeyman 
mechanic  with  a  wife  and  three  children." 

"  Just  so.    To  yourself  for  instance  ?" 

"  No  doubt.  Fifty  dollars !  I  don't  think  I  ever 
owned  as  much  at  one  time,  in  my  life." 

"You  can  own  that  much  to-morrow,  and  so 
can  your  friend  into  the  bargain,  if  you  can  pre- 
vail upon  him  to  do  me  a  little  service." 

"What  is  it?" 

<;  "A  mere  trifle.    Here  is  an  advertisement.    For 

certain  reasons  I  do  not  wish  it  to  appear,  and  yet 
it  must  be  put  in  type.  Can  you  not  prevail  upon 
your  friend,  after  the  regular  edition  of  the  paper 
is  ofl^  to  take  out  some  of  the  type  and  put  this  in 
its  place,  and  print  me  a  single  copy." 

"  Is  that  all  ?    O  yes.    I'll  guarantee  that  ?" 

"  And  will  you,  when  the  regular  carrier  leaves 
the  paper  in  the  morning  at  my  house,  have 


THE    HEIRESS.  Jd  ^ 

J  <, 

removed,  and  the  copy  containing  the  advertise- 
ment put  in  its  place  ?" 

"  Certainly  I  will." 

"  Then,  so  soon  as  it  is  done,  I  will  give  you  a 
check  for  one  hundred  dollars.     The  money  you  ] 

and  your  friend  can  divide." 

"  That's  just  the  ticket!    I'm  your  man." 

"  But  there  must  be  no  failure." 

"  You  need'nt  fear  any." 

"  So  far  so  good.     But  there  is  the news- 
paper.   The  same  thing  must  be  done  there." 

The  man  looked  grave. 

"  What  is  the  prospect? 

"  Rather  slim  !    R ,  the  pressman  in  that 

office,  is  a  hard  customer  to  manage.     He  is  one 

of  your  independent  kind  of  fellows,  who  prides  j; 

himself  on  his  honor,  and  all  that." 

"  Humph!    Has  he  a  family?" 

"  No.     But  he  has  four  hundred  dollars  in  the 
saving's  bank." 

"  Indeed !    That's  bad." 

"  It's  a  fact.   I  don't  believe  he  could  be  brought 
over." 

"  Not  for  a  hundred  dollars  ?" 

"  No,  nor  for  five  hundred,  if  he  once  got  Ins  i; 

pluck  up.r' 

"  Every  man  has  his  price." 

"But  it  isn't  always  money,  Mr.  Grant." 

Both  of  the   men  remained  silent  for  over  a 
minute.     Layton  broke  silence  by  sayim* — 

"  I  can  tell  you  what  I  might  try  to  da." 

"  Speak  out." 

"R has  one  fault." 

"  He  will  get  on  a  Jerry  now  and  then." 

«Ah!" 


»M  THE    HEIRESS. 


"  And  then  he  sprees  it  for  three  of  four  days,. 
I  might  try  to  make  him  drunk.  When  this  Imp- 
pens,  a  man  in  the  office  has  to  take  his  place,  who 
would  sell  his  soul  for  five  dollars." 

"  He  shall  have  twenty,  and  you  fifty  more  than 
already  promised  you,  if  the  thing  is  done."  ^ 

"  For  my  soul  ?"  And  Layton  looked  Mr.  Grant 
in  the  face  with  a  mock  serious  air." 

"  If  you  please  to  call  it  so,"  was  the  grave 
reply. 

"  I'll  see." 

"  See  to  it  quickly,  then.     Not  a  moment  is  to 
be  lost.    If  I  had  only  thought  of  this  before,  there          j; 
would  have  been  no  difficulty  whatever." 

"None  at  all,  with  two  or  three  days  ahead  of 
me.  But  trust  me  to  do  my  best  as  it  is." 

"  You  shall  be  liberally  rewarded.    I  will  say  a 

hundred  dollars,  if  you  will  put  this  R out  of 

the  way." 

"A  strong  inducement.  Depend  upon  it  I  will 
work  hard.  Good  morning!" 

"Good  morning!  Let  me  hear  from  you  as 
soon  as  all  is  in  a  fair  way." 

"  Aye !  aye !   You  shall  be  fully  advised." 


And  the  two  men  parted. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

• 

"  AH  J  Layton.  How  are  you  now  ?"  said  Mr. 
Grant,  as  the  individual  he  addressed  entered  his 
store,  about  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  "  Have 
you  been  able  to  do  any  thing  ?" 


THE    HEIRESS.  95 

«  All  right  at  the office." 

"  So  far  so  good.    But  what  of  R ;  that  is 

the  name,  I  believe." 

Layton  looked  grave.  !> 

"  Have  you  seen  him  ?" 
|  « Yes."  $ 

"  Can't  he  be  managed  ?"  > 

"  I'm  afraid  not.  He  has  just  come  to  work, 
after  spreeing  it  awful  hard  for  a  week,  and  is  as 
serious  and  penitent  as  a  condemned  criminal.  I 
asked  him  to  go  and  take  a  drink  with  me ;  buit 
he  said  'no,'  with  a  decided  shake  of  the 
head." 

"  Bad — bad,"  returned  Grant,  knitting  his  brows. 
"  What  is  to  be  done  ?  Is  there  no  way  to  get  him  •! 

off?" 

"  I'm  afraid  not  For  weeks  after  he  had  been 
on  a  spree,  you  can't  prevail  on  him  as  much  as 
to  look  at  a  glass  of  liquor.  He  seems  to  loath  it,  '/ 

and  himself  tog,  for  his  folly." 

The  merchant  cast  his  eyes  to  the  floor,  and 
mused  long  in  deep  perplexity  of  mind. 

"  You  shall  have  two  hundred  dollars,  Layton, 
if  you  will  keep  this  advertisement  from  appearing," 
lie  at  length  said.  "It  is  of  the  very  first  import- 
ance to  me  that  it  should  not  see  the  light.  Think 
?  again.  I  am  sure  that  you  can  aid  me  if  you  will 
only  set  your  wits  to  work." 

"It  might  be  done,"  was  replied  to  this,  in  a 
slow,  thoughtful  voice,  after  some  moments  had  < 

elapsed. 

u  How  ?    Speak  out  freely." 
•  "  At  some  risk,  however." 

"  I  will  compensate  you  for  all  risks." 


f**r-~r>--^-s 


I 

06  THE    HEIRESS. 

'  '/ 

u  I  know.  But  the  thing  may  fail,  and  I  get 
into  trouble  without  aiding  you  at  all." 

"  What  do  you  propose  ?  Or  have  you  any 
new  plan  clearly  defined." 

«  Not  clearly." 

A  pause  followed.  Something  seemed  to  be 
upon  the  mind  of  Layton  that  he  hardly  dared 
venture  to  speak  out. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  me.  I  am  prepared  for  any 
thing.  The  advertisement  must  be  kept  out  at  all 
hazzards." 

^  "  It  will  be  a  dark  night.     I  might  knock  him 

down  as   he  goes  to  the  press  room  to-morrow 
s'  morning  at  two  o'clock !" 

"  Humph !" 

"  How  does  that  strike  you  ?" 

"  It  will  do,  if  it  can  be  done  so  well  that  your 
other  friend  will  be  obliged  to  run  the  press." 

"  There  need  be  no  fear  about  that.  It  can  be 
done  so  effectually  that  he  will  keep  his  bed  for  a 
week." 

"  Do  it  then,  by  all  means.  But  have  you  nerve 
enough  ?" 

The  look  that  Layton  cast  upon  the  merchant, 
satisfied  him  that  he  had  nothing  to  fear  on  that 
head. 

In  order  to  provide  against  all  unforeseen  contin- 
gencies, Layton  secured  the  prospective  co-opera- 
tion of  the  man  who  would  have  to  take  the  place 

s  of  R at  the  press,  by  a  promise  of  twenty-five 

dollars  in  the  event  of  suppressing  the  advertise- 
ment. 

About  half  past  one  o'clock  on  the  next  morning, 
he  glided  from  his  lodgings,  carrying  in  his  ham' 

\  \ 

i  J 


THE    HEIRESS.  97. 

•  stout  cane.  Heavy  clouds  covered  the  sky—  the 
air  was  dense  and  humid — ihe  lamps  struggled 
feebly  with  the  darkness.  Layton  hurried  along  ^ 

the  deserted  street  until  he  came  to  a  dimly  lighted  ^ 

lane,  which  ran  from  Second  to.Third  street,  down 
which  he  turned,  and,  after  walking  about  one 
fourth  of  the  square,  retraced  his  steps  to  Third 
street  and  stood  for  nearly  five  minutes,  listening 
with  fixed  attention.  He  was  about  moving  away, 
when  his  ear  caught  the  sound  of  distant  footsteps. 

£  A  man  approached.  Layton  drew  back  into  the 
alley  until  he  had  passed.  As  he  went  by,  a  hur- 
ried glance  satisfied  him,  that  it  was  the  pressman. 

I;          In  a  moment  after  a  heavy  blow  from  the  villain's 

ine  laid  R bleeding  and  insensible  upon  the 

avement.  ^ 

Instantly  retiring  into  the  alley,  Layton  glided 
Jown  with  quick  but  noiseless  steps,  and  emerged 
nto  Second  street.  He  then  walked  leisurely  along,  ^ 

secure  in  his  own  mind,  against  suspicion.     His  <; 

accomplice  at  the  printing  office  waited  until  fifteen 
minutes  beyond  the  usual  time  of  the  pressman's 
arrival,  and  then  took  the  form  from  the  foreman 
and  made  it  ready  for  the  press.  Only  a  few  re- 
volutions of  the  wheel  had  been  made,  and  a  few 
perfect  copies  of  the  morning  paper  thrown  off, 
when  the  assistant  pressman  gave  orders  to  stop  , 

the  machine.  He  held  a  note  in  his  hand;  how 
he  came  by  it  he  did  not  tell,  nor  did  any  one  in- 
quire. It  purported  to  be  from  the  clerk  in  the 
office,  and  directed  that  a  certain  advertisement 
which  had  been  handed  in  should  not  be  inserted. 


After  reading  it  aloud,  he  gave  vent  to  sundry  in- 
vectives against  the  foreman,  who  had   already 


THE    HEIRESS. 


gone  home,  for  not  having  seen  ar,  d  attended  to 
the  note  before  the  form  was  made  up.  He  then 
unlocked  the  form  and  removed  the  advertisement 
—  re-arranging  the  matter,  and  filling  up  the  space 
with  something  else.  The  few  copies  that  had 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

ON  the  following  morning,  both  old  Mr.  Mark 
land  and  Mason  Grant  arose  earlier  than  usual. 


been  worked  off  were  thrown  aside.  Just  as  the 
press  was  again  started,  the  door  of  the  press  room 

opened,  and  R himself  staggered  in.     His  coat 

and  vest  were  literally  soaked  in  blood.  There 
was  a  deep  wound  on  the  side  of  his  head,  and 
one  ear  was  nearly  torn  off.  He  could  give  no 
other  account  of  his  situation  than  that  he  had 
been  knocked  down  by  some  unknown  person. 

The  accomplice  of  Layton  was  shocked  at  this 
Apparition.  He  had  expected  some  result:  what,  his 

mind  not  had  fully  anticipated.  He  knew  that  R 

would  be  waylaid,  and  knocked  down  ;  but  he  had 
Mot  calmly  reflected  on  what  might  be  the  conse- 
quence. When  he  saw  him  covered  with  blood,  jj 
and  beaten,  as  it  appeared,  so  terribly,  he  was 
greatly  alarmed  ;  for  he  was  himself  guilty  of  the 
outrage  to  an  extent  far  beyond  what  would  be 
pleasant  to  him,  were  his  participation  in  the  affair 
to  become  known. 

A  physician  was  called  in,  who   dressed   the 
<;          wound,  and  pronounced  it  not  to  be  dangerous. 

R was  then  taken  home.    He  did  not  leave  the 

house  again  for  a  month. 


i 

THE   HEIRESS  99 

> 

The  heart  of  the  former  was  set  at  rest  on  finding 
the  long  promised  notice  in  the  "  Gazette"  and 
"Advertiser;"  but  the  latter  could  not  be  satisfied 
until  he  had  gone  out  and  examined  other  copies 
than  his  own  of  these  two  morning  newspapers. 
The  advertisement  was  in  neither  of  them ;  but, 
in  one  was  this  paragraph. 

rj  '[ 

"  POSTSCRIPT. — Daring  outrage. — As  Mr.  R the  ^ 

pressman,  belonging  to  this  office,  was  on  his  way  to 
the  press  room  this  morning,  about  two  o'clock,  he 
was  knocked  down  in  the  street  by  some  person  un- 

;'  known,  and  most  shockingly  beaten  about  the  head  •; 

and  face.  No  cause  for  this  daring  outrage  can  be 
assigned,  as  the  villain  who  gave  the  blow  did  not 
attempt  to  rob  the  man  he  had  knocked  down." 

j;  < 

Grant  smiled  with  inward  satisfaction  at  this 
paragraph.  It  indicated  the  resolute  character  of 
the  man  he  had  gained  over  to  his  interests. 

At  breakfast  time,  all  appeared  to  be  in  better 
spirits.  Mrs.  Grant  understood  from  her  husband 
the  underhand  game  that  was  playing,  and,  there- 
fore, she  was  not  troubled.  Markland  thought  all 
as  fair  as  it  appeared.  After  breakfast  he  went  to 
Mr.  Grant's  store,  and  waited  with  a  good  deal  of 
interest  for  the  result.  He  could  not  but  believe, 
spite  of  every  intruding  doubt,  that  the  stranger 
he  had  seen  was  the  child  of  his  sister,  and  that 
she  would  see  the  advertisement  and  at  once  comft 
forward.  But  the  whole  morning  passed  aad  no 
one  appeared.  The  old  man  looked  sober,  and 
eat  but  little  at  dinner  time.  He  went  back  to  the 
store,  and  waited  all  the  afternoon,  but  to  as  little 
purpose  as  he  had  spent  the  morning. 


100  THE    HEIRESS. 

On  the  next  ilay  the  advertisement  again  appeared, 
but,  as  before,  suppressed  from  the  regular  editions. 
The  whole  scheme  had  worked  to  a  charm  for 
Mr..  Grant  Layton  received  the  reward  of  his 
villany,  which  was  shared  with  his  accomplices 

in  the  business,  Poor  R suffered  severely.  He 

was  out  of  his  head  when  the  doctor  called  to  see 
him  on  the  morning  after  the  assault,  and  had 
considerable  fever.  For  a  week  after,  fears  for 
his  life  were  entertained.  But  a  healthy  system 
reacted  on  the  disease  under  which  he  was  suffering, 
and  he  slowly  recovered.  It  was  a  month  before 
he  was  able  to  go  out.  Layton  was  never  suspected. 

After  the  lapse  of  several  weeks,  Mr.  Markland 
suggested  the  propriety  of  having  the  notice  for 
heirs  published  in  two  or  three  western  papers. 
Mason  Grant  thought  it  unnecessary.  The  other 
did  not  press  the  subject  on  him,  but  quietly  cut 
from  two  of  the  newspapers,  which  he  had  pre- 
served, the  advertisement  and  sent  a  copy  to  a 
paper  in  Cincinnati  and  to  one  in  Pittsburg,  ac- 
companying each  with  a  five  dollar  bill  and  a  re- 
quest to  publish  the  notice  three  times  a  week  for 
five  or  six  weeks. 

Nothing  more  passed  between  the  old  man  and 
his  brother  and  sister  on  the  subject.  The  latter 
thought  themselves  safe,  while  the  former  was 
waiting  in  anxious  expectation  for  some  intelligence 
from  the  West. 

One  day  Mr.  Grant  found  among  his  letters  by 
the  last  mail  one  addressed  to  "  Joseph  Markland 
and  Mason  Grant,  Executors  of  the  late  Thomas 
Markland."  It  was  post  marked,  "  Cincinnati." 
Hurriedly  breaking  the  seal  he  opened  and  read  it 

1  ! 

i  > 


THE  HEIRESS.  101 

It  was  a  reply  to  the  notice  before  mentioned,  and 


stated  the  fact  already  too  well  known  to  Grant,  t 

that  a  daughter  of  Anna  Gray  was  in  Philadelphia, 
and  suggested  the  propriety  of  the  Executors  ad- 
vertising for  her  in  that  city.  \ 


•'  Confusion  !"  muttered  the  merchant  between 


his  closed  teeth.     "  What  does  all  this  mean  ?" 
and  he  crumbled  the  letter  in  his  hands.     "Can 
there  have  been  any  deception  about  that  adver- 
tisement ?     It  is  possible  that  Joseph  has  given  it  ;> 
an  additional  circulation  without  my  knowledge  ?  J; 
I  will  know,  the  moment  I  see  him.     What  right 
has  he  to  act  in  this  matter  without  my  concur- 
rence ?" 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  in  a  less  agitated  manner, 
after  thinking  for  a  few  moments,  "  I  will  keep  f? 

*iy  own  counsel,  at  least  for  the  present.  This 
fitter  never  meets  his  eyes — never !" 

To  put  all  chances  of  such  an  occurrence  out 
oe  the  question,  the  letter  was  immediately  de- 
s.royed. 

Two  other  communications,  uf  a  similar  charac- 
ter, were  received,  and,  in  like  manner,  consigned 
to  oblivion.  What  Grant  most  dreaded,  was,  that 
some  one  in  the  west  would  write  directly  to  the  ;! 

girl,  or  send  her  the  advertisement,  marked.  If 
this  should  be  done,  and  she  receive  it,  and  present 
herself,  all  would  be  at  an  end. 

Weeks  and  months  passed  away,  and  no  one 
came  forward  to  claim  the  legacy.  Old  Mr.  Mark- 
land  had  walked  the  town  over  and  over  again,  at 
all  hours  of  the  day  and  evening,  in  the  hope  of 
meeting  once  more  with  the  stranger  who  had 
interested  his  feeling  so  much,  and  awakened  in 


12 


j 

102  THE   HEIRESS. 


, 
his  mind  so  many  memories  of  the  olden  time 


But  no  trace  of  her  was  seen.     And  he  gradually 


began  to  fall  into  the  belief  that  all  had  been  a 
mere  temporary  excitement  of  his  imagination. 
That  Anna  and  her  children  were  in  another  and 
a  better  world.  At  length  he  ceased  to  speak  on 
the  subject;  if  he  thought  much  about  it,  it  was 
not  with  sufficient  force  to  lead  to  any  further 
action. 

Five,  six,  seven,  eight,  nine,  ten  and  eleven 
months  passed  away.  Mr.  Grant  and  his  wife 
breathed  more  easily.  Still  they  felt  anxious.  Un- 
til the  expiration  of  the  period  limited  by  the  will, 
there  was  danger.  Anna's  child  was,  in  all  prob- 
ability, still  in  the  city,  or,  she  might  have  gone 
back  to  the  west,  and  there  received  information 
of  the  good  fortune  that  awaited  her.  All  was 
afloat,  until  after  the  long  looked  for  period,  and 
might  be  wrecked  in  an  instant. 

Of  one  thing  they  were  careful,  and  that  was 

<;          never  to  speak  of  the  subject  in  the  presence  of 

the  brother.     If  he  casually  alluded  to  it,  but  little 

was  said  in  return,  and  the  theme  of  conversation 

changed  as  quickly  as  possible. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

MEANTIME,  Anna  Gray  had  found  a  home  with 
one  who  loved  her  and  cared  for  her  as  tenderly 
as  a  mother  could  love  and  care  for  her  child.  But 
a  very  short  period  elapsed  before  Mrs.  Grand  savr 

[ „__ 


THE    HEIRE      .  103 

Ihe  purity  and  truth  of  her  character,  and  gave  her 
to  feel  that  she  had  the  fullest  confidence  in  her. 

Anna  devoted  herself  with  feelings  of  grateful 
affection  to  the  task  of  lightening  the  burdens  of 
her  maternal  friend.  She  worked  for  her  and  with 
her  diligently,  thus  adding  to  her  little  store,  in- 
stead of  abstracting  from  it.  Weeks  and  months 
went  silently,  and  almost  unnoted,  by,  without  any 
further  effort  on  the  part  of  Anna  to  make  herself 
known  to  her  relatives.  It  often  crossed  the  mind 
of  Mrs.  Grand  that  it  would,  perhaps,  be  no  more 
than  justice  towards  Anna  for  her  to  see  if  they 
would  not  do  something  for  her.  But  her  own 
independent  feelings  revolted  at  the  'bought  of 
asking  favors  of  those  who  would  be  likely  to 
turn  away  with  contempt,  as  they  had  already  done 
in  anger.  Once  or  twice  she  hinted  at  the  subject, 
but  Anna  would  not  listen  to  any  thing  of  the  kind 
for  a  moment. 

"  I  have  no  claims  upon  them,  and  I  cannot, 
therefore,  urge  any,"  she  would  reply.  "  In  call- 
ing upon  my  aunt,  I  fulfilled  the  promise  made  to 
a  dying  mother.  She  would  not  own  me.  She 
turned  from  me  as  she  had  before  turned  from  my 
mother.  Shall  1  go  to  her  again  ?  No !  no ! 
While  I  have  health,  my  own  hands  will  bring 
me  all  I  need." 

To  language  like  this,  Mrs.  Grand  had  nothing 
to  object.  It  was  but  a  response  to  her  own  feel- 
ings. 

Mrs.  Grand  was  a  woman  who  had  seen  many 


vicissitudes  in  life,  and  passed  through  many  very 
painful  trials  ;  but  out  of  all,  so  far,  she  had  come, 
like  gold  from  the  crucible,  brighter  and  purer  for 


'\  104  THE    HEIRESS. 

lff  .  I 

the  ordeal.  Some,  as  they  grow  older,  appear  to 
ecome  selfish,  impatient,  penurious,  irritable ;  or, 
exhibit  some  other  defects  of  character,  that  make 
them  burdensome  to  all.  It  is  not  that  their  char- 
acters have  really  changed  with  age.  It  is  only, 
that,  with  age,  external  restraints,  such  as  love  of 
reputation,  or  the  good  opinion  of  the  world,  have 
become  less  active.  These  have  lived  to  no  good 
purpose.  They  may  have  accomplished  much  in 
the  world  during  the  period  of  active  manhood ; 
but  the  best  and  highest,  and  most  import  work 
given  them  to  do — self  conquest,  and  self  elevation 
<;  — have  been  neglected.  Ah,  it  is  a  sad  sight  to 

see  the  true  interior  states  of  the  aged  becoming 
manifest,  when  those  states  are  thoroughly  unre- 
generate !  It  is  a  sad  sight  to  look  upon  an  old  man, 
and  feel  that  he  has  lived  in  vain. 

But  Mrs.  Grand  had  not  lived  in  vain.  She  en- 
tered upon  life  with  a  profound  respect  for  religion  ; 
and  yet  she  was  not  what  is  called  a  "pious" 
woman.  That  is,  she  was  not  one  who  talk  much 
about  her  own  elevated  state,  or  gagued  her  religion 
by  her  feelings.  In  her  external  deportment  and 
appearance,  she  differed  but  little  from  those  around 
her.  The  broad  difference  was  in  her  principles  ;• 
of  action.  She  performed  all  her  duties  in  life  with 
a  profound  regard  for  justice  and  judgment.  Her 
religion  was  not  a  mere  Sunday  religion — it  suited 
all  days,  and  its  spirit  pervaded,  benignly,  all  her 
works.  It  was  founded  upon  the  two  command- 
ments on  which  hang  all  the  Law  and  the  Prophets  \ 
— "  Thou  shall  love  the  Lord  thy  God  with  all  thy 
heart,  and  thy  neighbor  as  thyself." 

With  a  basis  like  this  to  her  character,  the  trials 


THE  HEIRESS.  105 

of  life  could  only  elevate,  strengthen,  and  purify 
her.  And  such  was  the  result.  As  years  came 
stealing  quietly  on,  and  external  influences  became 
less  and  less  active,  no  unseemly  aspect  of  mind 
was  presented.  Her  intellect  was  clearer,  her 
whole  character  was  softened,  and  all  her  passions 
were  under  the  control  of  right  reason. 

Mrs.  Grand  was,  therefore,  a  woman  just  suited 
to  guide  and  counsel  a  young  girl  like  Anna  Gray 
Anna's  mother,  amid  all  the  painful  vicissitudes  of 
her  life,  had  been  sustained  by  a  feeling  of  pride. 
As  to  religion,  she  thought  of  it  but  rarely,  and 
derived  from  it  no  support.  What  she  did  not 
herself  possess,  she  could  not  present  to  her  child. 
Anna,  therefore,  had  never  been  taught  to  look  .  •; 
upon  life  with  the  eye  of  Christian  philosophy. 
;|  To  enable  her  to  do  this,  was  the  work  of  her 
new  found  friend.  But  it  proved  a  difficult  task. 
Religious  ideas,  if  not  presented  to  the  mind  in 
childhood,  rarely  ever  enter  it  fully.  It  is  the 
prayer  said  be.side  the  mother's  knee,  with  the 
lesson  about  heaven  and  the  angels,  and  the  deep 
reverence  expressed  to  the  child  in  regard  to  God, 
that  does  this  work  most  effectually.  It  is  a  law 
of  moral  life,  that  all  which  succeeds  partakes  of 
the  quality  of  that  which  precedes.  The  child,  it 
is  proverbially  said,  is  father  to  the  man ;  and  this 
is  true  according  to  the  law  just  mentioned.  Just 
as  the  twig  is  bent  the  tree  's  inclined,  is  another 
axiom  expressing  the  same  thing.  The  first  ideas 
a  child  receives,  give  his  mind  a  certain  form,  and 
as  form  modifies  all  influent  life,  whether  vegetable, 
animal,  intellectual,  moral  or  spiritual  life,  it  must 
be  that  the  man's  whole  character  will  be  modified 


106  THE    HEIRESS. 

by  the  peculiar  circumstances,  ideas,  and  impres- 
sions of  his  childhood.  Let  a  child's  earliest 
thoughts  be  directed  to  God  as  a  good  Being,  who 
sends  his  angels  to  take  care  of  him  while  he  sleeps,  ^ 
and  who  protects  him  from  harm  at  all  times ; 
who  makes  the  sun  shine,  and  the  fruits  grow; 
who  loves  the  good  and  is  angry  with  the  evil; 
and,  no  matter  how  much  he  may  stray  from  the 
paths  of  rectitude  in  after  life,  he  can  never  in  this 
world  wholly  lose  a  regard  for  religion,  or  a  cer- 
tain reverence  for  God. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  a  child  is  not  so  instructed, 
and  he,  yet,  have  inherited  certain  qualities  of 
mind  that  make  him  a  good  citizen  and  an  honest 
man,  no  matter  how  anxious  he  may  be  to  believe 
the  truths  of  inspiration,  and  to  rest  with  confidence 
in  the  assurance  of  a  Divine  over-ruling  providence, 
he  will  find  it  very  hard  to  do  so.  He  may,  after 
awhile,  see  clearly,  and  feel  in  the  profoimdest 
depths  of  his  heart  that  there  is  a  God,  and  that  He 
is  the  revvarder  of  them  that  diligently  seek  him. 
But,  it  will  be  after  passing  through  a  dark  night 
of  doubt  and  fear,  before  the  day  star  arise  and  the 
morning  break  joyfully  upon  the  spirit. 

Anna  Gray  did  not  understand,  vsry  clearly,  the          ', 
first  ideas  that  were  presented  to  her  mind  by  Mrs.          \ 
Grand.     The  effort  to  make  her  see  that  in  the 
death  of  her  mother  there  must  be  a  dispensation 
of  good,  entirely  failed. 

"  No — no — It  is  not  good  for  a  young  girl  like 
me  to  lose  her  mother !"  was  replied  with  all  the 
deep  pathos  of  conscious  truth. 

But  Mrs.  Grand  did  not  despair.  There  was 
good  ground  in  Anna's  mind.  In  the  morning  she 


THE    HEIRESS.  10? 


CHAPTER  XX. 

3  passed,  before 
able  clearly  to  see  the  fruits  of  her  labor.    The 


sowed  her  seed,  and  in  the  evening  withheld  not 
her  hand,  trusting  that  it  would  find  an  entrance 
somewhere,  and  spring  up  and  produce  fruit.  She 
did  not  attempt  to  blind  her  understanding  and 
subdue  her  heart  with  a  religious  awe  by  the  pres- 
entation of  mysterious  dogmas  thatmust  be  believed 
or  the  soul  sink,  irretrievably,  into  ruin.  No — 
hers  was  a  milder  faith.  Love  was  its  ruling 
principle — love  to  God  and  love  to  the  neighbor. 
She  knew  that  it  was  good  that  saved — not  blind 
faith.  Good  of  life  from  a  religious  ground.  And 
so  she  endeavored  to  make  Anna  both  see  and  feel. 
She  did  not  press  the  subject  upon  her;  but  led 
her  mind,  almost  insensibly,  to  reflect  upon  the  rela- 
tion that  exists  between  the  creature  and  the  creator. 
Her  end  in  doing  this  was  simple  and  good. 
She  believed,  and  believed  truly,  that  only  just  so 
far  as  any  one  came  into  true  moral  order,  which 
must  involve  an  understanding  of  divine  and  moral 
laws,  and  a  life  according  to  them,  could  there  be 
safety  on  earth  amid  its  thousand  evil  allurements. 
For  Anna  she  felt  a  genuine  affection,  and  that 
prompted  her  to  seek  her  good — yea,  her  highest 
good.  She  knew  but  one  way  to  do  this,  and  in 
that  way  she  sought,  diligently,  to  bless  with  the 
choicest  of  blessings  the  gentle,  pure-hearted  girl 
that  Providence  had  committed  to  her  care. 


SOME  months  passed,  before  Mrs.  Grand  was 


108  THB    HEIRESS. 

£  '  > 

result  had  been  so  gradual,  and  almost  impercept- 
ible, that,  even  while  looking  for  the  signs,  she 
did  not  perceive  their  presence.  They  were  first 
apparent  in  a  calm  elevation  of  countenance,  and 
a  more  cheerful  tone  of  voice.  While  looking  for 
an  expression  of  sentiment,  she  had  passed  by  these. 
But  when  she  did  notice  them,  her  heart  warmed 
with  emotions  such  as  only  they  who  seek,  un- 
selfishly, the  good  of  others,  can  feel. 


Nothing  of  particular  interest  to  the  reader  oc- 
curred for  nearly  ten  months  from  the  period  Anna 
came  under  the  roof  of  Mrs.  Grand,  further  than 
the  gradual  reception  of  higher  truths  into  her 
mind  than  she  had  ever  before  known.  But 
then  an  event  took  place,  than  which  nothing 
could  have  been  more  afflictive.  Mrs.  Grand  was 
taken  suddenly  ill,  and  died,  after  suffering  for 
three  weeks  the  pains  of  a  malignant  disease. 

Thrown  again  upon  the  world,  friendless,  Anna 
Gray  was  once  more  compelled  to  look  around 
her  for  a  sheltering  nook  where  she  might  hide 
herself  from  want  and  danger.  In  losing  Mrs. 
\  Grand,  just  at  a  time  when  she  had  created  in  her 

mind  a  thirst  for  pure  and  elevating  truths  that 
were  to  give  her  character  a  just  basis,  and  form 
it  upon  a  right  mode],  she  felt  most  keenly  the 
bereavement.  When  her  mother  died,  she  lost  a 
natural  guide  and  counsellor — now  she  had  lost  a 
spiritual  guide  and  counsellor. 

"  I  am  indeed  alone  !"  she  murmured,  as  she  sat 
weeping  in  the  little  room  where,  for  nearly  a  year 
she  had  listened  to  the  words  of  wisdom  as  they 
came  in  such  gentle  and  earnest  tones  from  the 
lips  of  Mrs.  Grand.  The  solemn  services  for  the 


THE    HEIREtS.  109 

dead  had  been  performed,  and  the  body  carried 
forth  and  buried.  The  few  friends  that  had  come 
to  pay  the  last  sad  tribute  of  tears  to  the  virtues 
of  one  whom  to  know  was  to  honor,  had  departed, 
and  Anna  was  left  alone.  Though  cast  down  in 
spirit  and  afflicted,  she  did  not  yield  herself  up  to 
murmuring  despondency.  She  had  been  taught  a 
better  lesson  in  life,  and  that  from  the  lips  of  her 
now  so  sincerely  mourned.  But  it  was  impossible 
not  to  feel  sad  in  her  affliction,  and  to  be  infested 
with  doubt  and  fear  for  the  future. 

The  slowly  falling  twilight,  as  evening  came 
stealing  on,  deepened  the  gloom  that,  spite  of  all 
she  could  do  to  rise  above  it,  oppressed  her  heart. 
Darkness  came  down,  and  she  felt  more  than  ever 
alone.  She  lit  a  lamp,  but  to  her,  the  light  was 
not  a  cheerful  one,  and  failed,  as  of  old,  to  dispel 
from  the  room  night's  dusky  shadows.  Fears  of 
a  superstitious  kind,  do  what  she  would  to  dispel 
them,  stole  over  her. 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  stay  here,  alone,"  she  said  aloud, 
as  these  fears  grew  more  palpable,  glancing  timidly 
around,  and  inwardly  trembling  lest  from  the  sha- 
dows of  the  room  should  start  forth  some  fearful 
vision. 

"  But  where  can  I  go  ?"  she  added.  "  I  have 
no  other  home,  and,  even  here  I  cannot  remain 
long." 

A  rap  at  the  door  caused  her  to  start,  and  the 
blood  to  curdle  in  her  veins.  This  was  only  for 
a  moment  or  two.  Her  self-possession  quickly 
returned,  and  going  to  the  street  door,  she  opened 
it  and  found  that  a  young  acquaintance  named 
Laura  Woods  had  called  to  see  her. 
K 


110  THE    HEIRESS. 

a  I  thought  you  would  feel  very  lonesome,"  said 
Laura,  "  and  so  I  have  come  round  to  stay  with 
you  all  night  if  you  would  like  me  to  do  so." 

"  It  is  very  kind  in  you,"  Anna  returned,  with 
a  full  heart,  warmly  pressing  the  hand  of  Laura. 
It  was  all  she  could  say.  They  had  been  acquaint- 
ed for  only  a  short  time  :  but  the  oftener  they  met, 
the  more  they  felt  drawn  towards  each  other.  Laura 
was,  like  Anna,  an  orphan,  and,  like  her,  almost 
friendless.  She  had  a  very  delicate  constitution. 
To  the  eye  of  one  skilled  in  detecting  the  marks 
of  a  hidden  disease,  her  bright  eye,  her  pure  com- 
>  plexion  and  semi-transparent  skin — her  narrow 

chest  and  stooping  form  accompanied  by  a  frequent, 
but  not  painful  cough,  would  have  been  a  too  sure 
premonition  of  decline. 

Laura  staid  with  Anna  that  night.     Her  thought- 
ful regard  for  her  peculiar  situation  awoke  tenderer 
i  feelings  in  the  oreast  of  Anna  than  she  had  yet 

experienced.  A  fuller  confidence  was  the  result. 
She  opened  all  her  heart  to  Laura,  and  she,  in  turn, 
told  of  her  bereavements  and  trials  in  the  past — 
her  hopes  and  fears  for  the  future.  This  sealed 
them  fast  and  tenderly  united  friends.  Laura  had 
been  engaged  for  the  past  two  years  in  going  out 
and  sewing  by  the  week  in  a  number  of  families. 
She  had  more  work  than  she  could  do,  and  it  was 
soon  agreed  between  her  and  Anna,  that  they 
should  take  a  room  together,  and  while  Laura 
went  out  to  sew,  Anna  was  to  remain  at  home  and 
work.  Laura  could  always  get  as  much  as  Anna 
could  do  from  the  families  in  which  she  was  sew- 
ing. Every  evening  she  was  to  come  home. 
This  arrangement  was  entered  into.  Anna  took 


THE    HEIRESS.  Ill 

care  of  the  room  and  worked  at  home,  while  Laura 
went  out  to  sew  by  the  week.  What  they  earned 
was  common  property,  and  used  as  their  wants 
required. 

One  Saturday  evening,  about  six  weeks  alter 
Mrs.  Grand's  death,  Laura  said  to  Anna, 

"  I  am  going  to  a  new  place  on  Monday,  and 
where  do  you  think  it  is  ?" 

''  I'm  sure  I  cannot  tell,  where  ?" 

"  To  your  aunt's." 

"  To  Mis.  Grant's!"  exclaimed  Anna,  rising  up 
quickly.  ;> 

"  Yes.     Mrs.  T for   whom  I   have   been 

sewing,  recommended  me  to  her,  and  I  have  pro-  £ 

mised  to  go." 

"  Did  you  see  Mrs.  Grant  ?" 

"  Yes.     She  was  at  Mrs.  T 's  to-day,  and 

engaged  me."  N 

"  And  you  are  going  ?"  said  Anna  in  a  bewildered 
manner.  •; 

"  Yes.     I  told  you  I  was." 

"  So  you  did.     But  what  you  say  has  confused 

me  so  that  I  can  scarcely  think.     When  did  you 

i« 
say?  you  were  going  t" 

"  On  Monday." 

"  1  thought  you  promised  me  that  after  you  had 

finished  for  Mrs.  T you  would  rest  for  a  few 

days.  You  are  not  at  all  well." 

'•  I  know.  But  Mrs.  Grant  says  that  it  is  indis- 
pensable to  have  me  at  once,  and  so  I  shall  have 
to  wait  another  week  before  taking  rest." 

Anna  looked  sober.  The  past  came  back  too 
strongly  upon  her. — Her  mother's  wrongs  and 
suffering  and  the  insult  and  cruel  repulse  she  har* 


112  THE    HEIRESS. 

received  at  the  hands  of  her  aunt,  were  remem- 
bered too  vividly. 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  go  there,  Laura,"  she 
said,  giving  way  to  her  feelings. 

"I  have  promised,  you  know,"  was  calmly  re- 
plied. 

u  True.     And  it  is  weakness  in  me  to  feel  so." 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  Anna,  I  am  glad  for  your 
sake,  of  the  opportunity  this  will  afford  me  to 
learn  all  about  your  mother's  relatives.  You  have 
s  spoken  of  her  brother — he  may  be  living,  and,  if 

so,  I  will  learn  for  you  where  he  is.  He  may 
have  a  truer  heart  than  his  sister." 

"  He  cast  off  my  mother.  I  want,  therefore,  nc 
favors  at  his  hand,"  Anna  replied  firmly. 

"  Of  that  he  may  have  long  ago  repented.  It 
will  be  your  duty  at  least,  to  give  him  a  chance 
of  atoning  for  the  errors  of  the  past." 

Anna  shook  her  head.  But  even  while  she  did 
so,  arose  the  wish  in  her  heart  to  be  received  by 
her  uncle,  for  her  mother's  sake,  if  he  were  yet 


alive 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


ON  the  Monday  following,  Laura  went,  as  she 
had  agreed,  to  the  house  of  Mrs.  Grant. 

Anna  strove  to  feel  indifferent,  but  this  was  im 
possible.     Try  all  she  would  to  banish  from  her 
mind  thoughts  of  her  aunt,  and  the  probable  result 
of  Laura's  engagement  to  sew  for  her,  they  con 
stantly  intruded  themselves. 


THE    HEIRESS.  113 

As  the  day  wore  on  from  morning  until  noon, 
and  the  afternoon  towards  evening,  she  found  ner 
hand  less  true  in  performing  its  task,  and  her  heart 
less  calm  and  even  in  its  pulsations. 

At  six,  Laura  was  to  be  home.  But  long  before 
five  o'clock,  Anna  was  compelled  to  lay  aside  her 
work,  for  the  simple  reason,  that  her  trembling 
fingers  could  hold  the  needle  no  longer. 

When,  at  length,  her  friend  returned,  she  was 
able  to  assume  an  air  of  external  indifference. 
Laura  said  nothing  about  Mrs.  Grant,  or  her  family, 
for  some  time  after  she  came  in,  and  Anna,  though 
all  eagerness,  (an  eagerrfess  that  she  struggled  in 
vain  to  suppress,)  to  hear  what  had  transpired 
through  the  day,  asked  no  questions.  At  last 
Laura  said,  after  looking  into  her  face,  steadily  for 
a  moment — 

"  How  strongly  you  resemble  your  cousin 
Florence !" 

Anna  started  at  this  unexpected  remark,  while 
a  deep  flush  passed  over  her  face. 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  by  my  cousin  Florence  ?" 
she  asked,  quickly  recovering  herself,  and  looking 
somewhat  sternly  at  Laura. 

"  I  mean  the  daughter  of  your  aunt,"  was  re- 
plied. "There  are  two  grown-up  girls — your 
cousins — Ella  and  Florence.  The  latter  resem- 
bles you  very  much  in  her  face;  but  there  the 
likeness  ceases.  She  is  a  proud,  vain  girl.  I  did 
not  see  much  of  Ella." 

"  Did  you  see  my  uncle  ?"  asked  Anna,  striving, 
as  she  spoke,  to  prevent  the  interest  she  felt  in  the 
question  from  showing  itself  in  the  tones  of  her 
voice. 

K2 


i  i 

114  THE    HEIRESS. 

!;  '} 

"No,"  was  replied,  "I  eat  my  dinner  with  tlio 
<;  house-keeper,  and,  therefore,  did  not  see  all  the 

family." 

"Did  you  learn  whether  he  was  living  with 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grant  r" 

"  No,  I  had  no  opportunity  to  ask  any  questions 
of  the  house-keeper  at  the  dinner-table." 


"  Did  you  hear  his  name  mentioned  ?" 


\  "No." 

"  He  may  not  even  be  alive." 
There  was  a  touch  of  sadness  in  the  tone  of 
Anna's  voice,  as  she  said  this,  that  revealed  the 
')  true  state  of  her  feelings*. 

'-I  "I  cannot  tell;  but  I  will  learn  to-morrow," 

replied  Laura. 

Anna  made  no  further  remark  on  the  subject. 
"  How  have  you  felt  to-day  ?"  she  asked,  some- 
time afterwards. 

"  Not  very  well,"  Laura  said.    "  I  was  troubled 

with  a  dull  aching  in  my  breast  all  the  afternoon. 

Once  or  twice  quick  flushes  of  heat  went  over  me, 

;>  and  then  I  grew  faint.     I  was  afraid,  sometimes, 

that  I  wouldn't  be  able  to  keep  up  until  night." 

"  You  must  not  go  out  to-morrow,"  Anna  said, 
$  in  a  concerned  voice. 

"  I  have  promised  your  aunt,  and  do  not  wish 
to  disappoint  her.     I  hope  I  shall  feel  better  in  a 
day  or  two.     Mrs.  Grant  has  promised  to  have 
some  work  ready  for  me  to  bring  home  to  you  in 
<;  a  day  or  two." 

"  To  me  !" 

"  Yes,  to  you."  Laura  smiled.  "  I  did  not  tell 
Mrs.  Grant  that  you  were  her  niece.  I  only  told 
her  that  a  friend  of  mine,  who  did  not  go  out  to 


THE    HEIRESS.  115 


sew  in  families,  could  do  something  for  her  if  she 
wished  it." 

On  the  next  morning,  Laura  felt  even  more  in- 
disposed than  on  the  previous  evening.  Anna 
urged  her  not  to  go  out,  but  she  could  not  be  in- 
duced to  remain  at  home.  For  two  or  three  days 
she  held  on  with  great  difficulty  But  her  over- 
tasked strength  at  last  yielded.  She  came  home 
on  the  evening  of  the  third  day,  quite  sick.  The 
pain  in  her  left  breast  had  increased — she  breathed 
with  difficulty — her  skin  was  hot;  and  she  had 
an  irritating,  dry,  hacking  cough. 


She  had  told  Mrs.  Grant,  on  leaving  her  house 


/ 
that  evening,  that  she  was  afraid  she  could  not 

return ;  but  proposed  taking  some  work  home,  to 
which  that  lady  assented.  She  brought  with  her 
a  small  bundle  which  was  given  into  the  hands  of 
Anna.  It  contained  several  garments  that  were  to 
be  made.  ;! 

The  illness  of  Laura,  for  whom  Anna  now  felt 
the  tender  love  of  a  sister,  banished  from  her  mind 
all  thoughts  of  her  relatives — thoughts  that  had 
haunted  her,  and  disturbed  her  spirits  for  several 
days.  She  had  turned  herself  towards  them,  with 
reluctance.  She  turned  from  them  again,  without 
a  lingering  regret,  and  gave  up  all  her  mind  to  the 
care  of  Laura,  for  whose  fate  her  heart  trembled 
to  its  centre. 

At  first,  it  seemed  that  rest  was  all  the  sufferer 
needed.  She  slept  through  the  night,  and  awoke 
on  the  next  morning,  apparently  refreshed.  Her 
pulse  was  calmer,  the  pain  in  her  breast  not  so 
acute,  and  she  breathed  easier.  But  on  attempting 
to  rise  &  dizziness  caused  her  to  sink  tack  upon 

I  \ 


J 

I  16  THE   HEIRESS. 

> 


her  pillow,  while  a  deadly  paleness  overspread  uer 
face.  In  a  little  while  she  recovered  from  this, 
and  was  able  to  sit  up  in  her  bed ;  but  Anna  would 
not  permit  her  to  rise.  She  drew  a  little  table  up 
to  her  bed-side,  and  set  upon  it  their  morning 
meal.  Laura  tried  to  eat,  but  she  could  only  swal- 
low part  of  a  cup  of  tea.  Her  stomach  loathed 
all  food. 

After  breakfast  she  tried  to  sit  up  and  sew.  But 
she  soon  had  to  relinquish  the  attempt.  The  efforts 
to  concentrate  her  mind  upon  her  work,  caused  her 
head  to  swim,  and  a  faintness  to  come  over  her. 

"  It  will  not  do,  Laura.  You  are  too  sick  to 
^Itempt  any  thing  now.  I  must  take  your  work 
from  you,"  Anna  said,  when  she  saw  the  effect  of 
the  sick  girl's  efforts ;  and  by  gentle  force  she  took 
her  sewing  from  her  hands,  and  removed  from  the 
bed,  where  it  had  been  placed,  her  work-basket. 

"But  your  efforts  will  not  be  sufficient  to  sup- 
port both  of  us,"  Laura  returned,  her  eyes  filling 


and  her  voice  trembling. 

"  Mrs.  Grand  has  often  said  to  me,  when  I  have 
given  away  to  a  desponding  spirit,"  returned  Anna, 
in  a  low,  earnest  voice,  "  that  we  are  all  the  child- 
ren of  a  Father,  who  is  not  only  able  to  take  care 
of  us,  but  who  loves  us  with  a  love  far  surpassing 
rill  human  love.  Give  yourself  up  to  him,  Laura. 
Feel  that  you  are  in  his  hands, — all  will  come  out 
right  at  last." 

A  gleam  of  light  passed  over  the  face  of  the 
sick  girl. 

"  My  heart  thanks  you,  Aana,  for  those  words," 
she  said,  with  much  feeling.  "  How  they  cause  to 
rush  back  upon  me  the  memories  of  long  past  years, 

\ 


THE    HEIRESS.  117 


when  such  lessons  were  taught  me  by  a  mother, 
called  too  early  away  from  her  child." 

"  Say  not  too  early.  Does  not  He  (and  Anna 
pointed  upwards,)  know  best?" 

u  Was  not  your  mother  called  from  you  too  I> 

early  ?"  Laura  looked  with  a  steady  eye  into  the 
face  of  Anna. 

"My  heart  says  yes.  But  enlightened  reason 
says  no,"  was  the  reply.  "  It  was  long  before  I 
could  assent  to  the  truth  of  what  Mrs.  Grand  so 
earnestly  strove  to  impress  upon  my  mind,  that  all  ;j 

things  are  under  the  direction  of  a  wise  and  be- 
nevolent Providence,  and  that  nothing  is  permitted 
to  take  place  that  is  not  for  good.  But  so  varied 
were  the  illustrations  she  gave  me,  and  so  often 
did  she  bring  home  to  my  mind  facts  and  prin- 
ciples, that  I  could  no  longer  doubt.  It  is,  it  must  be 
true.  The  death  of  my  mother  seemed  the  deep- 
est wrong  that  could  have  been  inflicted  upon  me. 
I  murmured  against  it  bitterly.  But  I  see,  already, 
that  it  was  for  good.  To  be  spurned  by  my  aunt, 
when  I  was  homeless  and  penniless  in  a  strange  J! 

i          city,  had  in  it,  to  my  mind,  no  sign  of  any  thing 
but  evil.  But,  what  I  have  gained  of  moral  strength 
of  character,  and  a  knowledge  of  the  laws   of 
Divine  Providence,  from  an  association  with  Mrs. 
.;          Grand,  I  would  not  give  for  all  the  favors  such  a  > 

woman  as  my  aunt  is,  could  possibly  bestow  upon  <; 

me.     Had  I  been  permitted  to  choose  my  course 


in  life,  I  would  have  remained  in  Cincinnati,  but  I 


obeyed  a  mother's  dying  injunction.  When  I 
arrived  in  this  city,  I  had  but  one  hope  —  I  saw  but 
one  refuge  —  my  relative's  favor  ;  my  relative's  pro- 
tection. I  obtained  neither.  It  has,  I  am  free  tr 


118  THE   HEIRESS. 

>  $ 

acknowledge,  been  better  for  me  that  I  was  cas 
off  by  them.  Trust  me,  Laura,  all  is  right.  We 
are  alone  upon  the  earth,  but  we  have  a  father  in 
heaven." 

Before  Anna,  who  was  holding  in  hers  the  hand 

of  Laura,  had  ceased  speaking,  the  eye-lids  of  the 

I-  other,  from  beneath  which  tears  were  glistening, 

had  drooped  low  upon  her  pale  cheeks;  but  the 

whole  expression  of  her  face  had  become  softened, 

£  and  a  faint  smile  played  about  her  lips.     A  strong 

pressure  of  the  hand  was,  for  some  moments,  her 

only  response.     Then  she  said,  in  a  low  voice, 

that  struggled  to  retain  its  calmness, 

"You  are  right,  dear  Anna!  We  shall  be  cared 
for.  You  will  be  cared  for." 

;>  Laura's  feelings  here  overcame   her,  and  she 

sobbed  aloud. 

Anna  understood  too  well  the  meaning  of  the 
last  sentence — a  meaning  that  forced  itself  upon 
her,  suddenly,  as  prophetic,  and  caused  every  fibre 
of  her  soul  to  thrill  with  anguish.  Her  own  heart, 
too,  overflowed.  Twining  her  arms  about  the  neck 
of  Laura,  she  laid  her  cheek  to  hers,  and  mingled 
her  own  tears  with  those  of  her  weeping  friend. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

week  more,  and  all  will  be  safe,"  was 
the  remark  of  Mason  Grant,  as  he  drew  his  chair 
before  the  well-filled  grate,  where  glowed  the  first 
fire  of  the  season.  "  I  shall  then  sleep  soundly, 
what  I  have  not  done  for  the  last  twelve  months." 

1       -  '    '  I 


1 

THE    HEIRESS.  119 

"  I  wish  that  girl  had  been  dead,  before  she 
came  here,"  was  the  reply  of  Mrs.  Grant,  who 
was  alone  in  the  parlor  with  her  husband.  "  How 
freely  I  shall  breathe  in  a  week  from  to-day!"  ^ 

"Yes,  freely,  indeed!  I  shall  then  be  happy. 
What  a  long  time  of  anxious  suspense  I  have 
had !  I  wonder  if  your  brother  thinks  the  period 
of  limitation  so  near." 

"  I  should  think  not." 

"  We  must'nt,  for  the  world,  give  him  a  hint  of  $ 

the  fact.  Ten  chances  to  one,  if  he  wouldn't  go  to 
advertising  in  every  newspaper  in  the  city,  and  have 
this  girl  coming  forward  at  the  last  moment."  s 

"  He  is  insane  enough  to  do  any  thing,  it  seems. 
But,  has  it  never  crossed  your  mind,  Mr.  Grant,  >; 

that  all  danger  is  not  past  even  after  we  are  safely 


beyond  the  day  of  limitation  ?" 

Mr.  Grant  looked  alarmed. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  said. 

"  My  brother  is  rich." 
.;  "Well?" 

"  And  a  bachelor." 
s  « I  know." 

"  We  have,  naturally,  large  expectations  for  our 
girls." 
$  "We  certainly  have." 

"When  he  dies " 

Mrs.  Grant  could  not  help  feeling  a  touch  of 
shame,  as  she  uttered  her  thoughts.  A  slight  glow 
tinged  her  cheeks. 

"  When  he  dies,  the  bulk  of  his  property  will 
revert  to  Florence  and  Ella,  if " 

"If  what?"  quickly  asked  her  husband. 

"  If  this  girl  of  Anna's  does  not  come  to  light." 


U_.. 


12C  THE   HEIRESS. 

"  What  are  you  talking  about,  woman  ?" 

"  If  Anna's  child  should  present  herself,  and  we 
lo  not  pay  her  the  legacy  left  by  my  father,  even 
after  the  day  of  limitation  is  past,  my  brother  is 
just  the  man  to  will  her  his  entire  property  when 
he  dies.  I  know  him." 

This  was  said  in  slow,  measured  tones. 

The  lips  of  Mason  Grant  were  drawn  apart,  and 
he  looked,  with  a  bewildered  air,  into  the  face  of 
his  wife.  It  took  him  some  moments  fully  to  com- 
prehend her  meaning.  When  he  did  so,  he  became 
very  pale,  struck  his  hand  hard  against  his  fore- 
head, and  muttered  a  bitter  invective  against  Anna 
Gray. 

The  door  opened  at  the  moment,  and  old  Mr 
Markland  came  in. 

Instantly  the  cloud  passed  from*  the  brow  of 
Mason  Grant,  and  he  spoke  to  his  wife's  brother  in 
cheerful  tones.  But  the  old  gentleman  appeared 
thoughtful,  and  replied  only  in  monosyllables  to 
the  remarks  that  were  made  to  him. 

"  Mary,"  he  said  abruptly,  during  a  pause,  and 
turning  to  his  sister  as  he  spoke,  "  can  you  tell         ? 
;>  why  it  is  that  I  think  all  the  time  about  Anna  ?" 

He  looked  steadily  into  his  sister's  face,  from 
which  the  color  slowly  retired. 

"Do  you  think  of  her?"  pursued  the  old  man.  i 

"Think  of  her?    Why  should  I  think  of  hen          $ 
£  You  ask  strange  questions,  sometimes,  Joseph."  > 

There  was  petulance  in  the  tones  of  Mrs.  Grant's 
voice. 

"  Do  I  ?  Humpn !  I  am  a  strange  kind  of  a  man, 
altogether." 

With  an  offended  air  Mr.  Markland  arose,  and 

'!  5 


THE   HEIRESS.  121 

slowly  left  the  room.     Mr.  Grant  called  after  him 
in  a  hesitating  voice,  but  he  was  not  heeded. 

On  entering  his  own  room,  where  a  light  was 
burning,  Mr.  Markland  seated  himself  by  a  table, 
and  signed  heavily,  as  he  leaned  his  hand  upon 
his  head. 

"  Poor  Anna !"  he  at  length  murmured — "  What 
would  I  not  give  to  know  the  fate  of  you  and 
yours.  Strange,  how  your  memory  presses  on 

i»  me  at  this  time!  Where  are  you?  Do  thy  feet 
yet  press  the  walks  of  busy  human  life? — or,  has 

s  thy  gentle  spirit  passed  long  since  to  the  company 
of  those  who  love  thee  better  than  did  thy  earthly 
frienas?  Ah!  If  I  could  only  know!  If  I  could 
only  know!" 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

\  \ 

WHILE  thoughts  of  his  long  absent  sister  were 
thus  pressing  themselves  upon  the  mind  of  old 
Mr.  Markland,  the  only  child  of  that  sister  was 
passing  through  another  of  the  deep  trials  by  which 
her  young  life  had  been  so  freely  marked. 

At  the  moment  he  sat  down  and  sighed  heavily 
over  the  memory  of  the  loved  and  lost  that  could 
return  no  more,  she  stood  eagerly  bending  over 
the  dying  form  of  her  only  friend  and  companion. 
Laura  knew  that  her  hour  had  come.  But  her 
heart  was  firm,  her  lip  calm,  and  her  eye  bright  tc 
the  last. 

i  .  f. 

"  I  shall  have  a  brief,  sweet  sleep,  Anna,"  she 
said,  in  a  low  whisper,  as  she  looked  up.  "  And 

1 


122  THE   HEIRESS. 


then  life  will  continue  on  again  —  conscious,  active 
life.  I  shall  not  be  far  from  you;  though  you 
will  not  be  able  to  see  me  with  your  bodily  eyes 


but  love  will  make  us  present." 


-  -     L 

Anna  could  not  reply ;  she  could  only  press  the 
hand  of  her  departing  friend,  and  weep. 

"  Can  you  not  smile  on  me  in  this  parting  ? 
sweet  sister!"  murmured  Laura.  "I  cannot  bear 
these  tears.  It  is  hard,  I  know,  for  you  to  be  left 
alone.  But  only  press  onward  with  a  firm,  true 
heart,  for  a  little  while,  and  we  will  meet  again. 
Oh,  if  you  could  see  the  light  that  I  now  see — 
could  only  feel  how  intimately  near  you  are  min- 
istering spirits,  to  support  you  in  trial,  and  guard 
you  in  danger,  you  would  not  weep.  Life  is  called 
a  warfare,  and  a  pilgrimage — but  in  it  we  have  the 
Invincible  to  fight  for  us,  and  the  All-seeing  to 
direct  our  steps.  Be  of  good  courage,  my  sister.' 

'Our  troubles  and  our  trials  here 
Will  only  make  us  richer  there.' 
!>  [> 

"Remember  the  beautiful  hymn  we  have  so 
often  sung  together — 

'  Judge  not  the  Lord  by  feeble  sense, 

But  trust  him  for  his  grace ; 
Behind  a  frowning  providence 
ff  He  hides  a  smiling  face. 

His  purposes  will  ripen  fast, 

Unfolding  every  hour ; 
The  bud  may  have  a  bitter  taste, 

But  sweet  will  be  the  flower!'  " 

The  last  words  were  more  feebly  uttered,  but 
the  eyes  of  the  speaker  were  fixed  steadily  upon 
Anna's  face.  In  a  few  moments  her  lips  moved 


THE    HEIRESS.  123  '! 

f 

again,  but  no  sound  touched  the  low  bent  ear  of 
her  friend.  A  deep  silence  followed.  Then  Laura 
tried  again  to  speak. — Anna  listened  eagerly — 

"  All  will  be  well — fear  not — good  cheer — shall  |> 

meet — "  ^ 

Still  h«r  lips  moved,  but  nothing  more  could  be 
heard.  A  moment  or  two,  and — the  silver  chord 
was  loosed  and  the  golden  bowl  broken!  ,"> 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  illness  of  Laura  had  prevented  Anna  from 
making  up  the  garments  which  had  been  brought 
home  from  Mrs.  Grant's.  The  bundle  lay  for  seve- 
ral days,  unopened,  upon  a  table,  and  was  then 
handed  to  a  poor  woman  in  the  neighborhood  to 
make,  who  knew  something  of  Anna's  history. 
On  the  night  that  Laura  died,  this  woman  com- 
pleted the  work,  and  was  rolling  it  up  in  a  news- 
paper— the  same  in  which  it  came — when  her  eye 
rested  upon  an  advertisement  that  attracted  her 
attention.  She  read  it  over,  and  sat  in  thoughtful 
mood  for  nearly  a  minute. 


she  drew  them  on,  and  left  the  house,  hurriedly. 
It  was  an  hour  after  dark.  Her  steps  were  bent 
towards  the  residence  of  Anna  and  her  companion. 
Her  hand  was  upon  the  door,  and  she  was  about 


Bless  me !"  she  at  length  exclaimed,  suddenly. 
"Can  it  be  possible?  Yes,  it  must  be — it  is! 
Anna  Gray,  here  is  good  fortune  for  you !"  Roll- 
ing up  the  paper,  she  thrust  it  into  her  pocket, 
and  taking  from  a  closet  her  shawl  and  bonnet, 


124  THE    HEIRESS. 


to  enter,  when  a  sudden  thought  caused  her  to 
f,  stop. 

"  She  is  a  strange  girl,  and  might  not - "  Her 
thoughts  were  uttered  no  farther.  But  she  turned 
away,  and  walked  down  the  street,  with  an  air  of 
irresolution.  Gradually,  as  she  kept  on,  her  step 
was  firmer,  and  in  a  few  minutes  her  manner  was 
that  of  one  who  had  determined  upon  a  certain 
course  of  action.  Ten  minutes'  walk  brought  her 
to  the  house  of  Mason  Grant,  in  Walnut  street. 
<!  She  rang  the  bell  with  a  firm  hand;  a  servant 

came  to  the  door. 

"  Can  I  see  Mr.  Markland  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so,  if  he  is  in,"  was  replied,  in  an 
indifferent  tone. 

u  Will  you  see?"  There  was  something  per- 
emptory in  the  tone  of  the  woman's  voice,  tha' 
made  the  servant  stare.  He  left  her  standing  in 
the  door,  and  went  up  to  Mr.  Markland's  room. 
Mr.  Markland  had  entered  it  but  a  few  minutes 
before,  and  was  silting  by  a  table  in  a  pensive 
mood,  his  thoughts  on  his  exiled  sister,  when  the 
servant  informed  him  that  a  woman  wished  to  see 
him  at  the  door. 
;j  "  Who  is  she  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir." 

"What  does  she  want?" 

"She  only  asked  to  S3e  you." 

"  What  kind  of  a  woman  is  she?" 

"  She  looks  like  a  poor  woman." 

"Where  is  she?" 

«  In  the  hall." 

"  Tell  her  I  will  be  down  in  a  moment** 

The  servant  withdrew. 


THE    HEIRESS.  125 

*  I  wonder  who  she  can  be,  and  what  she  wants 
with  me  at  this  hour?"  mmtered  the  old  man  to 
himself,  as  he  descended  to  the  hall  a  few  minutes 
after  the  servant  withdrew 

•'  Mr.  Markland  ?"  said  the  woman  in  an  in- 
quiring voice,  as  he  approached  her. 

"  That  is  my  name ;  what  is  your  wish,  madam  ?" 

"  You  advertised " 

"  What  ?"  Mr.  Markland  interrupted  her,  eagerly, 
catching  from  her  hand,  at  the  same  time,  the  news- 
paper which  she  drew  from  her  pocket. 

"  You  advertised  for  heirs  to  the  estate  of  Mr. 
Markland." 

"  Well !  what  do  you  know  about  them  ?" 

•'  I  know  the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Gray !" 

"  You  do !  Where  is  she  ?"  quickly  replied  the 
old  man.  "  Is  all  right  with  her?  And  her  mother? 
Where  is  she?" 

"Dead.    She  died " 

At  this  moment  one  of  the  parlor  doors  opened, 
and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grant,  who  had  heard  voices  in 
the  hall,  came  out. 

"  When  did  she  die  ?"  asked  Mr.  Markland.  The 
woman  had  paused  at  the  appearance  of  other 
members  of  the  family. 

"  About  a  year  ago,  in  Cincinnati,  and  her  only 
child,  a  daughter,  'las  been  since  that  time  in  this 
city,  laboring  with  honest  hands  to  earn  her  bread." 

*;  It  is  all  false !  It  is  a  trick !  The  woman  is  an 
impostor!"  shrieked  Mrs.  Grant,  in  a  wild  and  agi- 
tated manner. 

'•No,  madam,"  was  calmly  replied.  "It  is  the 
truth,  and  well  you  know  it." 

"  Where  is  she?  Tell  me  quickly!    I  will  go  to 

L2 


126  THE    HEIRESS. 

?  <! 

her  this  instant,"  said  old  Mr.  Markland.  "John* 
bring  me  my  hat  and  cane." 

They  were  brought. 

"Now  lead  the  way.   I  must  see  Anna's  child." 

"No,  no,  brother,  you   shall  not  go!"    Mrs. 
Grant  seized  his  arm,  and  endeavored  to  restrain 
him.   It  is  all  a  trick.   You  will  run  into  clanger." 
j!  "  Let  go  of  me,  woman!"    Mr.  Markland  jerked 

himself  away,  as  he  said  this  sternly.  "Not  a 
word,  Mason!"  he  added,  as  the  husband  of  Mrs. 
Grant  made  a  movement  to  interfere  with  him.  "  1 
think  I  know  my  own  business,  and  want  no  dic- 
tation. Lead  the  way,  madam,  I  am  ready." 

With  this  he  left  the  house,  and  hurried  off  at 
a  quick  pace. 

"Follow  him!  follow  him!"  urged  Mrs.  Grant. 
But  her  husband  retired  into  the  parlor,  and 
throwing  himself  into  a  large  chair,  let  his  head 
sink  upon  his  breast,  and  sat  in  sullen  silence. 

A  rapid  walk  of  some  ten  minutes  brought  Mr. 
Markland  and  his  guide  to  a  small  house,  in  a 
retired  court.  Without  knocking,  they  entered, 
and  went  up  stairs,  with  quiet  steps. 

"  She  lives  here,"  said  the  woman,  in  a  whisper 
with  her  finger  on  her  lip,  as  she  laid  her  hand 
upon  the  door  of  a  room  in  the  third  story. 

"  Knock,  then,"  was  the  old  man's  reply,  in  a 
low,  husky  voice. 

The  woman  rapped  lightly.  But  no  one  answered 
to  the  summons.  She  knocked  again,  and  loudei 
than  before.  All  remained  silent  within. 

"  Open  the  door,"  said  Mr.  Markland,  in  a  quick, 
excited  voice. 

The  door  was  thrown  open,  and  they  entered 


THE   HEIRESS.  127 

Ev  the  light  of  a  small  lamp,  they  saw  a  female 
lying  upon  a  bed.     She  did  not  move,  nor  appear 
conscious  of  the  presence  of  any  one.   Mr.  Mark- 
land  went  up  to  the  bed-side,  but  started  back  j> 
with  quivering  limbs,  pale  lips,  and  an  ejaculation 
of  horror.     Beyond  the  reclining  figure,  and  at 
first  concealed  by  it,  rose  the  rigid  outline  of  an  s 
ashy  face — death-marked!  j 

For  a  moment  or  two  Mr.  Markland  stood  like 
one  suddenly  paralyzed.  Then  grasping  the  woman  jj 

who  had  accompanied  him,  by  the  arm,  he  dragged 
her  to  the  bed-side,  and  said  in  a  low,  deep,  thrill- 
ing whisper,  ;j 

"  Which  is  my  niece  ?" 

"  This,  the  living  one." 

"Thank  God!"  was  the  old  man's  quick  ejacu-  ;> 

lation.  Then  leaning  over,  he  lifted  the  prostrate 
girl  from  the  bed,  withdrawing,  as  he  did  so,  an 
arm  that  had  been  twined  around  the  neck  of  her 
who  was  now  unconscious  of  all  earthly  things. 
Anna  was  only  half  insensible.  The  movement 
roused  her. 

*'  Mercy !    Where  am  I  ?   Who  are  you  ?    What  ^ 

does  this  mean  ?"   she  exclaimed,  struggling  to  '< 

release  herself  from  the  arms  of  Mr.  Markland,  and 
speaking  in  an  alarmed  and  indignant  tone.  £ 

"  What  is  your  name,  child  ?"  asked  Mr.  Mark-  £ 

land,  with  a  forced  calmness,  allowing  her  to  disen- 
gage herself  from  the  arm  with  which  he  had  raised  I- 
her  from  the  bed,  but  still  holding  her  hand  in  his 

"  My  name  is  Anna  Gray." 

"And  your  mother's  name?" 

«  Anna  Gray." 

"  Where  is  your  mother?" 


i  ;• 

I  128  THE    HEIRESS. 

I>  "  In  heaven."    This  was  said  in  a  meek,  low 

voice,  while  her  eyes  were  cast  upwards. 

"  What  was  your  mother's  maiden  name?" 

"Markland." 

"Where  is  your  father?" 

"Dead." 

"  And  your  mother  was  from  ?" 

"This  city." 

<j  "  Have  you  relatives  here  ?" 

^  "  I  have  an  aunt." 

"  What  is  her  name  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Grant." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  her  ?" 
(•  "Yes." 

" Does  she  know  you  are  in  this  city?" 

"Yes." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?" 

"I  called  upon  her;  but  she  spurned  me  as  an 
.mpostor !" 

"Gracious  Heaven!"  exclaimed  the  old  man 
with  indignation. 

"  But  how  can  you  prove  that  you  are  not  wha* 
Mrs.  Grant  said  you  were  ?"  he  resumed  mort 
gravely. 

Anna  turned  away,  and  took  from  a  drawer  t 
small  morocco  miniature  case,  and  handing  it  tc 
s  her  interrogator,  said — 

"  That  will  prove  the  truth  of  all  I  have  said 
to  any  who  have  a  right  to  know  the  truth." 

Eagerly  and  with  trembling  hands  did  old  Ml 
Markland  open  the  case  he  had  received. 


"  My  mother!  Oh!"  was  his  sudden  ejaculatior. 
staggering  back  a  few  paces,  as  if  from  a  blow 
Vrilh  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  miniature. 


i  ] 

THE   HEIRESS.  129 

\ 

"Enough!"  he  said,  in  a  few  moments,  recov- 
ering himseK,  and  advancing  towards  Anna.  — 
'•Enough!  You  are  my  long  lost  sister's  child! 
I  see  her  image,  now,  in  your  young  face.  Thank 
God  !  You  are  found  at  last." 

Mr.  Markland  threw  his  arms  around  Anna,  and 
drew  her  to  his  bosom,  where  she  lay  and  wept  ;> 

like  a  child  weeping  on  the  breast  of  a  parent.. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

J; 

AFTER  Anna  had,  by  the  exhibition  of  his 
mother's  miniature,  removed  from  the  mind  of 
Mr.  Markland  all  doubt  of  her  being  the  daughter 
of  his  sister;  and,  after  the  first  wild  joy  of  his 


heart  had  subsided,  Mr.  Markland  asked  if  there 


were   not  another  room    into  which  they  could  J; 

retire  from  the  chamber  of  death  where  they  now 
stood. 

"  We  have  no  other  room,"  replied  Anna. 

Mr.  Markland  mused  for  a  few  moments.  Then 
he  said  : 

"I  will  return  for  you  in  half  an  hour." 

"  To-night  I  wish  to  remain  here  with ," 

and  she  glanced  towards  the  bed.  ', 

"  No,  my  dear  child !  no,"  quickly  returned  Mr. 
Markland.  "Let  others  perform  these  sad  offices 
for  your  friend.  You  have  suffered  enough." 

"  You  are  right,  sir,"  spoke  up  the  woman  who 
had  guided  Mr.  Markland  to  the  house.  "  Let  me 
take  her  place  here.  I  will  see  that  all  is  don« 
that  need  be  " 


5;  -W  THE   HEIRESS. 

u  Is  not  this  enough,  my  child  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Markland,  in  a  subdued  voice,  for  he  was  touched 
ty  the  pure,  unselfish  love  manifested  by  Anna 
for  her  departed  friend. 

Anna  leaned  her  head  upon  his  shoulder  and 
sobbed  bitterly  for  a  few  moments.  Then  she 
lifted  her  face  and  said  — 

"  I  will  go  with  you,  if  I  may  return  to-morrow." 

"  You  shall  be  free  to  go  and  come  at  your  own 
I;  pleasure." 

Mr.  Markland  then  withdrew.     On  gaining  the         '$ 
street,  he  walked  slowly  along,  with  his  eyes  to 
the  ground,  debating  in  his  own  mind  what  im- 
mediate disposition  he  should  make  of  his  niece. 
It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  at  night.     He  could  not 
take  her  to  his  sister's,  and  it  was  too  late  to         j) 
make  arrangements  for  introducing  her  into  a  good 
boarding-house.    To  let  her  remain  at  her  present 
ladgings,  was,  in  his  mind,  out  of  the  question. 

"  Yes,  that  will  do,"  he  at  length  said,  half  aloud, 
and  quickened  his  pace  —  he  had  come  to  some 
hurried  conclusion.  After  walking,  briskly,  for 
the  space  of  ten  or  fifteen  minutes,  he  came  into 
Chestnut  street  from  Fifth  street,  and  turning  down, 
jj  kept  on  as  far  as  Third  street.  In  a  few  moments 
more  he  was  at  the  clerk's  desk  in  the  Mansion 
house. 

"Have  you  two  good  chambers  and  a  parlor 
vacant  ?"  he  asked. 


"Yes,  sir.    Two  of  the  finest  in  the  hcuse." 
"  Have  them  got  ready  immediately.     I  wish  a 

small  fire  in  the  parlor." 

"  Yes,  sir.    Will  you  enter  your  name  ?"    The 

clerk  handed  him  the  traveller's  entry  book. 


THE    HEIRESS.  13 

"  Joseph  Markland  and  niece,"  were  the  names 
he  entered. 

"  I  wish  a  carriage  immediately,"  said  the  old 
gentleman,  as  he  handed  back  the  pen. 

The  bell  was  rung  and  a  servant  directed  to  go 
for  a  carriage.  As  soon  as  it  arrived,  Mr.  Mark- 
land  entered  it  and  gave  directions  to  the  driver 
to  take  him  to  the  place  where  he  had  left  Anna. 

In  a  little  over  half  an  hour,  the  bewildered  girl 
found  herself  in  an  elegantly  furnished  parlor, 
which  she  was  told  was,  for  the  present,  her  home. 

After  she  had  related  her  whole  history,  and, 
that  of  her  mother,  whose  memory  was  watered, 
during  the  narration,  with  many  tears,  she  retired 
into  the  chamber  provided  for  her,  and  sought  the 
blessing  of  sleep.  It  did  not  come  for  many  hours. 
The  events  of  the  evening  had  been  of  too  excit- 
ing a  nature. 

Mr.  Markland  did  not  go  back  to  the  house  of 
his  sister,  but  occupied,  for  the  night,  the  other  ;! 

chamber  taken  with  the  parlor. 

In  the  morning,  when  he  met  Anna,  he  found 
her  dressed  with  a  degree  of  neatness  that  he  did 
not  expect.  She  had  on  a  silk  dress  of  light,  but 
plain  colors,  which  fitted  neatly  her  well  formed, 
graceful  person.  Her  hair  she  had  arranged  with 
taste,  and,  indeed,  had  seemed  to  study,  as  much 
as  was  in  her  power,  to  appear,  in  her  new  posi- 
tion, to  the  best  possible  advantage,  for  her  uncle's 
sake.  As  she  arose  to  meet  him,  he  was  charmed 
with  the  ease  and  grace  of  her  motions  and  the 
.nnocent  beauty  of  her  young,  intelligent  face. 
Teare  were  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked  up  to  her 
uncle  Tenderly  kissing  her,  he  enquired  hour 


132  THE   HEIRESS 

she  had  passed  the  night — expressed  again  ami 
again  his  pleasure  at  having  found  her — and  then 
causing  her  to  resume  her  sc-dt,  he  took  a  place 
by  her  side,  and  entered  into  a  close  conversation 
with  her,  that  was  simply  a  renewal  of  the  con- 
versation of  the  preceding  night,  and  related  to 
the  past  history  of  Anna. 

Breaiu*st  was  served  for  them  in  their  private 
parlor.  After  the  meal  was  over,  Mr.  Markland 
placed  a  well-filled  purse  in  the  hands  of  his  niece, 


and  told  her  that,  if  she  wished  to  go,  he  would 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

ON  the  mon'ing  of  the  fourth  day,  and  after  the 
wa.xlrobe  of  Anna  hati  received  important,  but 
ha^ty  additions,  Mr.  Ma^kland  made  his  first  ap- 
peaiince  at  the  house  of  his  sister,  since  the  night 
he  ha^  left  it  ao  abraptly. 


take  he.x  'n  a  carriage,  to  the  house  where  the 
body  of  he*  friend  lay,  and  leave  her  there  as  long 
as  she  wished  to  remain;  and  that  he  would,  in 
*he  mean  time,  see  that  all  necessary  arrangements 
vere  made  for  Laura's  burial. 

Anna  could  ask  no  more.  The  whole  day  was 
i^ent  in  performing  the  sad  offices  required  for 
the  dead.  On  the  morning  of  the  following  do  / 
the  remains  of  her  departed  friend  were  committed 
to  the  grave.  She  wept  as  she  stood  by  the  sf''e 
i'f  the  deep  chasm  that  received  the  inanimate 
body  of  one  whom  she  had  loved  as  a  sister,  bat 
she  wept,  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  her  uncle. 


!  \ 

THE    HEIRESS.  1H3 

Mrs.  Grant  did  not  seem  either  sjvpnsed  or 
glad  to  see  him.  A  deep,  gloomy  shadow  was  on 
her  face.  She  asked  no  question  as  to  where  he 
had  been,  or  why  he  had  remained  so  long  away. 
She  did  not  say  a  word  about  her  niece. 

"  Mary,"  said  the  old  man,  after  a  few  moments 
of  silence,  with  a  stern  face  and  voice — "  I  have 
found  Anna's  child,  thank  God !  Her  orphan  child, 
whom  you  spurned,  heartlessly  from  your  door, 
when  she  had  no  home,  and  was  alone  in  a  large  ;> 

and  strange  city "  I; 

"  And  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  discovery !" 
sneeringly  replied  Mrs.  Grant,  with  a  malignant 
expression  of  countenance. 

The  old  man  started  to  his  feet,  his  face  flushed 
with  instantly  excited  indignation.  ;> 

u  A  lovelier  girl  never " 

But  he  restrained  himself,  and  did  not  utter  the 
retort  that  was  on  his  tongue. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  he  could  control 
himself  enough  to  speak,  "  you  forget  that  Anna 
Gray  is  to  take  her  place  in  society  by  the  side  of 
yourself  and  family — and  worthy  is  she  to  take 
that  place. — Perhaps  you  forget — " 

"  I  don't  wish  to  hear  a  word  on  the  subject. 
It  is  an  offence  to  me  !" 

Mr.  Markland  arose  and  left  the  house.  He 
saw  that  his  sister  was  beside  herself  with  anger, 
and  he  knew  very  well  the  cause.  He  next  visit- 
ed Mr.  Grant.  Him  he  found  in  a  very  different 
mood.  Calm,  but  gloomy. 

"I  have  discovered  the  daughter  of  Anna, 
you  are  aware,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Grant. 

"  I  presumed  that  was  the  case." 
M 


.34  THE    HEIRESS. 

"  You  knew,  Mason,  all  along,  that  she  was  in 
the  city." 

"  I  did." 

"  Exposed  to  every  danger." 

"  Of  that  I  knew  nothing." 

"  Rather  say,  you  cared  nothing,"  replied  Mr. 
Markland,  sharply. 

"  Have  it  as  you  please.  I  am  in  no  mood  to 
dispute  about  words  just  now." 

"  You  and  Mary  seem  to  be  in  a  strange  temper 
about  an  event  that  should  give  you  joy." 

"  Humph  !"  the  lips  of  Mason  Grant  parted,  but 
he  did  not  smile — he  could  not. 

"  I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand  the  meaning  of 
til  this,  Mason,"  said  Mr.  Markland,  sternly. 

"Is  it  possible  that  the  necessity  of  paying  over 
vo  this  niece  her  proportion  of  her  grandfather's 
'state,  has  disturbed  you  both  so  deeply  ?" 

Grant  was  silent. 

''  But  I  need  not  make  such  a  supposition.  No- 
>  thing  else  could  have  had  this  effect." 

"  That  proportion  she  will  never  get,"  gloomily 
but  in  a  decided  tone,  replied  Grant. 

"What?" 

"  She  will  never  see  a  dollar  of  her  grandfather's 
property.  Do  you  understand?" 

"  What  do  vou  mean  ?" 

"  My  estate  will  not  pay  it.  Can  you  under- 
stand that  ?" 

"I  understand  what  you  say;  but  do  not  credit 
the  declaration." 

"You  can  satisfy  yourself  at  any  moment.  Are 
you  ready  lo  make  the  investigation  ?" 

"  1  am.     And  it  shall  be  made  rigidly,  depend 


THE    HEIRESS.  135 

upon  that.  It  will  be  a  desperate  case,  look  you ! 
Mason,  if  I  don't  get  out  of  your  hands  the  amount 
I  suffered  to  be  placed  there,  confiding  to  your 
honor  as  I  did.  You  had  no  right  to  risk  the 
£  loss  of  this  money  in  your  business.  You  should 
have  been  satisfied  with  the  use  of  it,  safely." 

"  We  will  not  bandy  words  about  that,"  abrupt- 
ly replied  Grant.  "  What's  past  can't  be  mended.  $ 
This  girl  cannot  get  the  legacy  left  by  her  grand- 
father, nor  even  a  portion  of  it,  without  ruin  to  me, 
and  I  will  fight  hard  before  I  am  brought  to  that 
issue.  Too  much  depends  upon  my  maintaining 
my  position.  I  must  look  to  my  children,  and 
the  effect  upon  them  of  bankruptcy.  Do  yoa  un- 
derstand ?" 

«  Perfectly." 

"  You  see",  then,  that  I  am  desperate." 

"  I  see  it.  You  have  played  the  fool,  and  now 
you  are  going  to  play  the ."  [; 

"  Stop  sir !"  ejaculated  Grant,  in  a  deep,  quick 
voice,  his  face  growing  almost  black  with  passion. 

"  The  villain  !"  coolly  added  old  Mr.  Markland, 
steadily  fixing  his  eyes  upon  the  excited  merchant. 

The  hand  of  Grant  was  suddenly  raised,  from 
an  impulse  to  strike  to  the  ground  the  man  who 
had  assailed  him. 

But  the  palm,  steady  eye,  of  Mr.  Markland  re- 
mained fixed  upon  him,  and  he  quailed  under  it. 

"Mason  Grant,"  said  the  old  man,  .speaking 
emphatically,  "we  part  here.  Our  paths  in  life 
diverge  from  this  point.  When  you  do  justice  to 
Anna  Gray,  and  when  my  sister  and  her  children 
come  forward  and  do  her  justice,  then  I  will  cross 
the  threshold  of  your  house.  Not  before.  As 

i  I 


136  THE    HEIRESS. 

one  of  the  executors  of  my  father's  will,  I  will 
see  that  the  orphan  girl  does  not  lose  her  portion 


Good  morning!" 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


THREE  months  have  elapsed,  and  we  find  Anna 
under  new  and  very  different  circumstances.  In- 
stead of  a  friendless  stranger  in  a  great  city,  she  is 
now  the  mistress  of  a  large  and  elegant  house, 
which  has  been  purchased,  and  beautifully  furnish-  J; 
ed  by  old  Markland  for  himself  and  niece. 

Every  day  endears  her  more  and  more  to  the 
heart  of  the  old  man,  her  uncle.  He  has  provided 
for  her  the  best  of  teachers,  and  she,  more  for  her 
uncle's  sake  than  her  own,  is  devoting  herself  to 
music,  to  the  study  of  French,  and  other  branches 
of  a  polite  education,  with  affectionate  assiduity. 
Gradually  he  is  introducing  her  into  society,  and 
she  charms  wherever  she  goes.  Her  history  has 
not  been  concealed. 

As  yet,  no  intercourse  has  taken  place  between 
her  and  Mr.  Grant's  family.  She  sometimes  al- 
ludes to  them,  but,  on  this  subject,  her  uncle  is 
always  silent.  She  believes  that  it  is  t]ie  pride  of 
Mr.  Grant  that  is  in  the  way  of  harmony  ;  the  real 
truth  she  does  not  know,  and  her  uncle  thinks  it 
best,  that  she  should  remain  in  ignorance  on  that 
head.  His  own  large  fortune  is  already  secured 
to  her,  and  that  will  more  than  make  up  to  her 
the  loss  of  her  grandfather's  legacy 

The  fact  that  his  sister  knew  that  Anna  was  in 
\  \ 

s  \ 


THE   HEIRESS.  137 

the  city  under  such  peculiar  circumstances,  and 
yet  concealed  the  knowledge  of  it  from  him,  was 
something  that  old  Mr.  Markland  could  neither 
forget  nor  forgive.  Indeed,  the  conduct  of  both 
herself  and  husband,  during  the  preceding  year, 
exhibited  so  deep  a  moral  perversion,  that  Mr 
Markland  wished  to  meet  them  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

tt  •! 

......      "  WHO  is  that  charming 

creature  leaning  on  the  arm  of  young  W  -  ?" 

"  Don't  you  know  ?"  This  was  said  in  a  tone 
s  of  surprise. 

"  I  never  saw  her  before,  to  my  knowledge.  I 
have  been  absent  from  the  city,  you  will  remem- 
ber, for  some  two  years." 

"True.     You  know  old  Markland?" 

"  Very  well." 

"  That  is  his  niece."  . 

"  His  niece  ?  Oh,  no  !  There  are  his  nieces  in 
the  other  room." 

"  You  mean  the  Misses  Grant." 

"  Yes." 

"  Her  name  is  Gray,  not  Grant.  And  she  is  a 
niece." 

"  He  has  but  one  sister,  Mrs.  Grant.", 

"  He  had,  it  appears  another  —  a  twin  sister  — 
who,  because  she  married  below  her  position,  a* 
it  was  thought,  was  thrown  aside  many  years 
since.  She  died  about  two  years  ago,  in  Cincin- 
nati, and  made  her  only  child  promise,  on  &e> 


138  THE    HEIRESS. 

death  bed,  that  she  would  come  to  this  city  and 
seek  out  her  relatives.  She  did  so,  but  was  not 
successful  at  first  I  believe,  in  finding  them.  For 
nearly  twelve  months  she  supported  herself  with  I; 
her  needle,  when  her  uncle  discovered  her  by 
some  fortunate  accident.  He  has  been  educating 
her  ever  since."  ^ 

;j  "  Quite  a  charming  piece  of  romance  !" 

"  Isn't  it.     The  old  man  is  as  proud  of  her  as 
if  she  were  his  only  child.     Look  at  him  !    See —          \ 
his  eyes  are  all  the  while  upon  her." 
!j  '.'  And  well  he  may  be.     She  is  a  lovely  being. 

I  don't  know  when  I  have  seen  so  sweet  a  face, — 
how  beautifully  blended  in  it  are  innocence  and 
!•  intelligence.     I  must  get  introduced." 

"  It's  too  late,  now,"  said  the  friend,  smiling. 

"  Why  ?" 

"  Young  W has  already  secured  the  prize." 

"  Are  you  in  earnest  ?" 

"  Yes.     That  matter  is  pretty  well  understood." 

"  He's  a  fortunate  fellow."  < 

"In  more  ways  than  one." 

«  How  ?" 

"  Old  Markland  is  worth  a  plum.     He  will  get 
a  double  fortune — a  woman  in  a  thousand  and  a         \ 
handsome  estate  into  the  bargain." 

i  In  about  an  hour,  the  friends  who  held  this  con- 

versation, met  again.     It  was  in  a  brilliant  party. 

"  There  is  one  thing  that  I  can't  understand," 
one  of  them  said. 

"  What  is  that  ?" 

"  I  have  noticed  Mrs.  Grant  and  her  daughters 
pass  near  this  Miss  Gray  several  times  during  the 

*?ning,  but  they  don't  seem  to  know  her." 


THE  HEIRESS.  139 

that." 
Give  me  the  benefit  of  your  explanation,  if 


••    can  explain  that." 


you  please. 


"  They  have  wronged  her,  and  therefore  cannot 
forgive  her." 

u  Humph  !    A  strange  reason." 


say,  that  Mr.  Grant  has  wronged  her  out  of  some 


affect  to  believe  that  this  young  lady  is  an  impos- 
tor, and,  therefore,  refuse  to  acknowledge  her  aa 


The  true  one,  nevertheless.     Or,  I  ought  to  ;! 


fifty  thousand  dollars,  it  is  said." 
>  «  Indeed  !" 

"  Yes.  Her  mother  could  not  be  found  when 
her  family  repented  of  their  treatment  towards  her. 
On  her  father's  (Anna's  grandfather's)  death,  he 
left  fifty  thousand  dollars  to  her  children  if  any 
should  be  discovered  within  a  certain  number  of 
years.  Mr.  Markland  and  Mr.  Grant  were  the 
executors  under  this  will.  In  case  no  heirs  were  [; 

found,  the  children  of  Mr.  Grant  were  to  inherit 
this  property. 

"  By  some  kind  of  hocus  pocus,  Grant  managed 
to  prevent  any  advertisements  for  heirs  from  ap-  1; 

pearing  until  the  latest  moment.     But  when  they 
did  appear,  they  were  effectual.     Anna  was  found, 
'i        through  their  means,  just  one  week  before  the  day 
of  limitation." 

u  And  secured  her  legacy  ?" 

"No.  Mason  Grant  was  entrusted  with  the 
property,  and  refused  to  give.it  up.  He  had  so 
long  looked  upon  it  as  the  property  of  his  children, 
th<u  he  could  not  feel  like  relinquishing  it." 

;-  Impossible  !" 

"  It  is  true,  I  believe.     The  Grants,  I  am  told, 


140  THE   HEIRESS. 

a  relative.  But  no  one  who  looks  into  h,er  face 
can  believe  her  capable  of  imposture." 

"  No.     I  will  exonerate  her  from  that  offence." 

"The  true  reason  of  their  conduct  is  to  be 
found  in  the  fact,  that  the  moment  she  is  acknowl- 
edged, the  odium  of  the  conduct  of  Mason  Grant 
will  fix  itself  upon  the  whole  family." 

"  I  understand  it  all,  perfectly." 

"  But  all  this  will  avail  them  nothing.  The 
whole  matter  is  pretty  well  understood  in  all  the 

circles   where  they  move.     Young  W had 

began  to  pay  some  attentions  to  Ella  Grant,  when 

Anna  made  her  appearance  with  her  uncle.     Her 

£  superior  charms  quickly  won  his  heart,  and  he  is 

now  her  acknowledged  lover." 

%  "  Success  to  his  suit,  say  I!     He  is  worthy  o" 

her  hand;  and  one  glance  at  her  sweet  face  is 
sufficient  to  satisfy  any  one,  that  she  is  worthy  of 
his." 

The  subject  of  their  remarks,  passed  near  them, 

at  this  moment,  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  W , 

£  and  the  friends  ceased  speaking. 


But  little  more  of  interest  to  the  reader  can  be 
related  of  Anna  Gray.  Mr.  Grant's  family  kept 
aloof,  and  Mr.  Grant  held  fast  to  the  legacy  left 
her  by  the  elder  Mr,  Markland.  But  it  did  him 
little  good.  In  a  few  years  he  failed  in  business 
and  became  very  much  reduced ;  and  not  long 
after,  died.  When  trouble  came  upon  them,  Anna, 
now  Mrs.  W ,  drew  the  veil  of  oblivion  over 


the  past,  and  visited  her  aunt  and  cousins.  They 
received  her  coldly — the  coldness  arising  from  a 
consciousness  of  having  wronged  her.  But  the 


THE   HEIRESS  14. 

angel-sweetness  of  her  character  soon  subdued 
their  feelings,  and  her  cousins  soon  learned  tr 
respect,  esteem,  and  then  to  love  her. 

Anna  fills,  now,  a  high  place  in  the  social  cii 
cle,  and  is  beloved  by  all.  A  few  years  since, 
her  uncle  died,  leaving  her  the  whole  of  a  hand 
some  estate — which  would  have  been  equally  di- 
vided between  herself  and  cousins,  had  not  Mr. 
Grant  so  wickedly  wronged  her.  In  seeking  the 
worldly  good  of  his  children  without  regarding 
justice  to  others,  Mr.  Grant  only  did  them  an  in- 
jury. This  was  a  natural  result — a  result  that 
always  takes  place,  no  matter  when,  or  where,  or 
how  the  attempt  is  made  to  secure  the  temporal 
well-being  of  any  one  at  the  expense  of  the  right* 
of  another. 


TUB  HMD. 


THB 


UUINED  GAMESTER 


CHAPTER  1 


ORE  than  once  have  I 
taken  up  my  pen  and 
endeavoured  to  com- 
pose my  mind  to  write. 
But  as  my  thoughts 
have  gone  far  back  in 

•    r&i 

.,  painful  reminiscence, 
I  have  turned  from  my 
self-imposed  task  with  a  feeling  of  unconquer- 
able reluctance.  The  past  I  would  forget, 
but  I  cannot.  As  this  is  the  case  —  as  the 
ghosts  of  misspent  hours  rise  up  and  haunt 
me — I  can  do  no  less  than  briefly  sketch  one 
or  two  leading  incidents  in  my  life,  to  serve 
as  beacon-lights  to  my  fellow-men,  warning 
them  from  a  dangerous  coast. 

As  I  glance  back  through  the  dark  vista  of 
years  that  have  passed  since  the  hours  of  in- 
nocent childhood,  I  see,  beyond,  a  period  of 


4  THE    RUINED    GAMESTER. 

time  the  remembrance  of  which  n.akes  the 
blood  move  quicker  in  my  veins.  The  sound 
of  a  mother's  voice,  the  smile  of  a  mother's 
lip,  the  glad  joy  of  a  mother's  eye,  then  biess- 
ed  my  heart.  If  a  son  ever  loved  tenderly  a 
mother,  I  was  that  son.  How  sweet  a  pe- 
riod is  that,  when  the  buds  of  innocence  open 
and  put  forth  leaves  and  fragrance,  under  the 
genial  sunshine  of  a  mother's  loving  heart ! 
Home  and  mother  !  Blessed  words  !  But  I 
killed  my  mother!  Do  not  shudder,  reader ! 
I  did  not  destroy  her  life  by  open  violence. 
Oh  no !  I  never  had  an  unkind  thought  of 
her.  I  ever  loved  her  with  surpassing  ten- 
derness. But  my  conscience  has  been  heavily 
burdened  since  that  sad,  sad  moment,  when 
she  passed  away  to  be  no  more  seen  upon  the 


earth. 


As  a  boy,  I  early  imbibed  a  fondness  for 
games  of  chance,  yet  never  was  so  skilful 
a  player  as  were  many  of  my  little  compa- 
nions. Marbles  was  a  game  at  which  I  could 
spend  hours  and  hours,  even  if  my  gains  were 
but  small.  To  win  was  the  incentive  to  play, 
although  I  set  no  great  value  upon  what  I 
won.  Still  my  passion  for  the  excitement  of 
playing  was  very  great — so  great,  that  school 
was  often  neglected,  and  my  lesson  badly 
said.  This  grieved  my  excellent  mother  Very 
much,  and  caused  her  often  to  chide  and  ad- 
monish me,  though  to  little  good  purpose. 

I  had  a  companion  about   my  own   age, 

\  '  I 


THE   RUINED   GAMESTER. 

named  George  Fuller.  This  lad,  with  a  fond- 
ness for  marbles  quite  as  ardent  as  my  own, 
possessed  superior  skill,  as  his  peculiar  form 
of  mind  enabled  him  to  become  more  absorb- 
ed in  the  game  than  it  was  possible  for  me 
ever  to  be.  George,  at  the  time  to  which  I 
am  about  to  allude,  did  not  attend  school ; 
and,  as  his  father  was  a  man  of  unsteady 
habits,  and  his  mother  a  weak,  half  broken- 
hearted woman,  the  acuteness  of  whose  own 
sufferings  made  her  forgetful  of  her  duty  to 
ner  children,  he  was  allowed  to  go  pretty 
much  where  he  pleased,  and  to  do  what  he 
pleased.  The  place  most  frequented  by  him 
was  a  stable-yard  near  both  of  our  homes, 
where  hours  were  spent  in  winning  their 
marbles  from  the  stable-boys  or  other  lads 
who  happened  to  be  there.  To  this  place  I 
frequently  stole  away,  though  expressly  for- 
bidden to  go  there  by  my  mother,  to  enjoy, 
uninterruptedly,  my  favourite  sport. 

For  years  my  mother  had  been  in  delicate 
health,  often  compelled  to  lie  in  her  bed  for 
days  at  a  time.  When  I  was  about  eleven 
years  old,  she  grew  worse  rapidly ;  so  much 
so,  that  my  father's  usually  quiet  manner 
was  so  much  disturbed,  that  even  I,  thought- 
jess  child  as  I  was,  could  not  help  remarking 
it.  This  continued  for  many  weeks,  during 
which  time  the  doctor  came  regularly  every 
dav.  One  evening  about  this  time,  I  came  into 
my  mother's  room  just  before  going  to  bed 

" 


/  -**-/--•%.  - 

G  THE    RUINED    GAMESTER. 

She  was  alone.  Her  face,  I  remember,  struck 
me  as  unusually  pale  and  thin.  She  was  sup- 
ported in  bed  by  pillows.  As  I  came  up  to 
her,  she  reached  out  her  hand  feebly,  and 
said,  with  a  serious  look,  and  in  a  tone  whose 
sadness  touched  my  young  feelings — 

"  Come,  James,  dear,  lay  down  by  me  for 
a  little  while." 

I  was  almost  instantly  upon  the  bed,  my 
cheek  resting  against  her  cheek,  and  my  hand 


tightly  clasped  in  her  hand.   I  can  never  for- 


above,  never  again  to  be  separated." 


get  the  words  next  spoken,  nor  my  sensations, 
when,  as  they  were  uttered,  a  tear  fell  upon 
my  face. 

"  My  dear  James,"  she  said  tenderly,  yet 
mournfully,  "  in  a  little  while  you  will  have 
no  mother  upon  earth  to  love  you  and  care 
for  you." 

Here  her  voice  choked,  and  she  gave  way 
to  tears.  I  wept  with  her,  and  wept  bitterly. 
The  idea  of  losing  my  mother  was  terrible 
as  it  was  unexpected.  She  drew  her  arm 
around  my  neck,  and  pressed  my  face  to  her 
bosom,  where  she  held  me  many  minutes, 
until  her  mind  became  composed.  Then  she 
resumed,  and  with  more  calmness. 

"  It  was  never  intended  that  we  should 
live  here  always,  James.  But  one  is  permit- 
ted to  remain  a  longer  time,  and  another  is 
taken  away  earlier  in  life.  I  must  go  early. 


Be  a  good  boy,  James,  and  we  shall  meet 


THE    RUINED    GAMESTER.  7 

Her  emotions  again  choked  her  utterance, 
and  she  was  silent.  For  a  good  while  I  lay 
with  my  head  against  her  bosom,  until  sleep 
overpowered  me,  and  I  slumbered  for  the  last 
time  upon  my  mother's  breast. 

It  was  long  after  sunrise  the  next  morning 
when  I  awoke.  I  found  myself  in  my  own 
bed,  in  a  chamber  separated  from  that  in 
which  my  mother  lay.  As  soon  as  I  had 
dressed  myself,  I  went  to  her  room.  I  found 
my  father  and  several  friends  standing  anx- 


iously around  her  bed.    Her  eyes  were  closed, 


and  she  looked  so  pale  and  death-like,  that  I 


which  was  followed  by  a  strong  gush  of  blood 
from  her  mouth  and  nose.  All  became  con- 
fusion in  a  moment.  My  father  called  to 
some  one  present  to  go  off  instantly  for  the 
doctor,  while  he  supported  my  mother  in  his 
arms. 

What  was  done  towards  checking  the  flow 
of  blood  from  the  lungs  I  know  not.  I  re- 
member that  before  the  doctor  came  the 
bleeding  had  ceased,  and  also  that  she  was 
paler  than  before,  and  apparently  unconscious 
of  the  presence  of  any  one.  In  the  course 
of  the  morning  the  doctor  came  in  a  second 


shuddered  as  my  eyes  fell  upon  her  face.  No 
one  seemed  to  notice  me,  as  I  came  up  and 
leaned  against  the  bed,  gazing  as  I  did  so, 
sorrowfully  upon  my  mother's  suffering  coun- 
tenance. While  standing  thus,  I  noticed  her 
move  slightly — then  came  a  convulsive  cough, 


^  "    J 

i 

8  THE    RUINED    GAMESTER. 

's  t 

time.  A  few  minutes  after  he  had  gone  away, 
my  father  called  me  and  told  me  to  go  to  the 
office  of  the  physician  for  some  medicine 
which  he  had  said  he  would  return  home  im- 
mediately and  prepare.  I  went  as  directed, 
and  received  a  phial  of  medicine  accompa- 
nied by  directions. 

On  my  way  home  I  had  to  pass  the  stable- 
yard  where  I  so  frequently  met  my  compa- 
nion, George  Fuller,  with  other  lads,  and 
played  at  marbles.  The  temptation  to  go 
into  this  place  was  so  strong  that  I  could  not 
resist  it.  I  found  George  and  two  other  boys 
deeply  absorbed  in  their  games,  in  which  I 
was  immediately  invited  to  join.  The  phial 
of  medicine  was  set  down,  my  sick  mother 
and  all  forgotten  for  the  pleasures  of  gaming. 
For  a  time  I  gained  over  my  companions,  but 
after  awhile  luck  turned  against  me,  and  I 
was  the  loser  at  every  game.  This  caused 
me  to  play  with  increased  skill  and  care,  but 
it  was  of  no  avail.  Marble  after  marble  pass- 
ed from  my  well-supplied  pocket,  until  scarce 
half-a-dozen  remained.  How  long  I  was  thus 
engaged,  before  my  last  game  was  played 
and  I  became  ruined,  I  know  not;  it  might 
have  been  one  hour  or  three — I  took  no  note 
of  time.  Sadly,  at  last,  was  I  compelled  to 
leave  the  attractive  ring,  and  become  a 
gloomy  spectator  of  the  prolonged  contest 
now  confined  to  my  three  companions.  For 
ten  or  fifteen  minutes  I  stood  watching,  with 


THE    RUINED   GAMESTER.  9 

5  "1 

depressed  feelings,  the  different  games  that 

were  played,  when  suddenly  I  started  at  the 
sound  of  my  name  called  in  tones  that  had 
been  familiar  to  my  ears  from  childhood — 
they  were  my  mother's  tones !  I  turned 
quickly,  and  my  eyes  rested  upon  the  phial 
of  medicine  I  had  set  down  and  forgotten. 
Everything  around  me  seemed  to  revolve  for 
a  moment,  and  then  I  became  fully  conscious 
of  the  fault  I  had  committed.  A  cold  chill 
passed  over  me  as  I  lifted  the  medicine  and 
glided  quickly  away. 

In  a  few  minutes  I  entered  the  door  of  my 
father's  house.  The  first  person  I  met  was 
the  doctor. 

"  Where  have  you  been  with  that  medi- 
cine ?"  he  asked  sternly. 

I  held  down  my  head,  and  made  no  reply. 

"  Unhappy  boy  !"  he  added,  in  softer  tones, 
"  You  have  destroyed  your  mother.  That 
medicine,  and  that  alone,  could  have  saved 
her.  But  it  is  now,  alas  !  too  late." 

The  phial  fell  from  my  hands.  It  was 
sometime  before  I  could  bring  back  rny  scat- 
tered thoughts.  Then  I  went  up  slowly  to 
my  mother's  chamber.  I  can  never  forget 
the  scene  that  was  there  presented.  All  was 
as  still  as  the  grave.  One  glance  at  my  mo- 
ther's face  told  the  story  of  her  fate.  Death 
had  fixed  upon  it  his  everlasting  seal.  My 
father  stood  with  folded  arms  looking  down 
upon  her  with  an  expression  of  stern  endu- 


10  THE    RUINED    GAMESTER. 

nince  upon  his  countenance,  while  half-a-doz 
en  friends  sat  around  the  bed,  the  tears  fol- 
lowing each  other  in  large  drops  over  their 
cheeks. 

"See  there!"  suddenly  exclaimed  my  fa- 
ther, as  he  became  conscious  of  my  presence, 
catching  hold  of  my  arms  and  lifting  me  from 
the  floor.  "  See  there  !  She  is  dead,  and  you 
have  killed  her !" 

Then  letting  me  drop  from  his  hands,  he 
covered  his  face,  and  sobbed  and  shuddered 
like  a  woman.  Never  in  my  life  had  I  seen 
him  so  moved.  He  was,  ordinarily,  a  man 
of  even,  temper,  and,  apparently,  cold  and 
phlegmatic.  But  the  icy  barrier  had  been 
broken,  and  the  strong  man  had  become  an 
infant. 

As  for  me,  young  as  I  was,  I  was  horror- 
>  stricken.     The  whole  truth  came  upon  my 

mind  with  the  sudden  distinctness  of  a  light- 
ning flash.  In  my  thoughtlessness  I  had  kill- 
ed my  mother — my  mother,  whom  I  loved 
deeply,  truly,  tenderly.  I  looked  upon  her 
pale,  expressionless  face,  for  a  moment  or  two 
— then  at  my  father  sobbing  and  weeping 
like  a  child — and  then  stole  away  from  the 
chamber  of  death,  and  hid  myself  in  the  gar 
ret,  where  I  wept  until  my  excited  feelings 
found  quiet  in  sleep.  When  I  awoke  it  was 
past  mid-day.  All  was  still  throughout  the 
house.  I  descended  slowly  and  silently,  and 
ventured  once  more  into  my  mother's  cham- 

1 


L 


THE    RUINED    GAMESTER.  11 

i  >    '• 

ber.  The  scene  had  become  changed.  Every 
thing  was  shrouded  in  white.  The  bed  upon 
which  she  had  lain  for  many  weeks,  was 
neatly  made  and  tenantless.  In  the  centre 
of  the  room  lay  all  that  remained  of  her  who 
had  loved  me  with  the  tenderest  love.  I  drew 
aside  the  covering,  and  once  more  gazed  upon 
her  face.  I  will  not  recall  my  feelings  at  the 
moment.  The  dim  recollection  of  them  makes 
me  shudder.  I  was  standing  beside  her  body, 
leaning  my  head  upon  my  hand,  and  looking 
down  into  her  face,  when  I  became  conscious 
that  some  one  was  by  my  side.  It  was  my 
father.  His  presence  rebuked  me,  and  I  turn- 
ed away,  and  left  him  alone  with  the  dead. 

At  the  burial,  I  remained  all  unnoticed  by 
my  father.  He  scarcely  spoke  to  me  tor 
many  months  afterwards.  Gradually,  how- 
ever, his  stern  manner  softened.  I  had  become 
so  changed,  that  he  could  not  but  see  it  and 
feel  it.  Fond  as  I  had  been  of  boyish  games 
and  sports,  I  no  longer  joined  my  old  com- 
panions, or  took  the  slightest  interest  in  any 
of  those  things  which  youth  resorts  to  for 
pleasure.  I  went  to  and  came  from  school 
regularly  and  mechanically.  At  home,  I  lin- 
gered about  the  house,  silent  and  thoughtful. 
Books  had  no  charms  for  me.  I  had,  there- 
fore, nothing  to  which  I  might  flee  as  a  relict 
from  my  gloomy  disquiet  of  mind.  My  mo- 
ther's death-bed  continually  haunted  my  me- 
mory. 


1'<J  THE    RUINED    GAMESTER. 


CHAPTER  II. 


AT  the  age  of  thirteen  I  left  my  father's 
house,  and  became  apprenticed  to  a  trade. 
The  occupation  which  this  gave  to  my  mind, 
as  well  as  my  body,  afforded  me  great  relief, 
and  I  soon  ceased  to  dwell  gloomily  upon  the 
past.  This  period  of  my  life  I  must  pass 
over ;  and  also  that  portion  of  it  immediately 
succeeding  the  expiration  of  my  minority.  I 
was  twenty-five  years  of  age,  when,  my  bu- 
siness having  proved  very  successful,  I  mar- 
ried the  daughter  of  a  tradesman  in  easy  cir- 
cumstances. Caroline,  my  wife,  had  been 
raised  tenderly,  and  had  received  a  good  edu- 
cation. Her  mind  was  above  the  ordinary 
cast,  and  her  heart  full  of  the  purest  and  ten- 
derest  feelings.  Some  would  have  thought 
her  plain,  but,  to  me,  she  was  very  beautiful 
— for  I  could  perceive  in  every  varying  ex- 
pression of  her  face,  the  speaking  forth  of 
some  true  thought,  or  some  good  affection. 

For  ten  years  we  were  happy.  For  ten 
years  I  prospered  in  my  business,  and  gather- 
ed in  wealth  with  but  a  small  expense  of  care 
and  anxiety. 

"  To-day,"  I  said  to  my  wife  one  morning 
the  first  in  a  new  year,  "  I  owe  no  man  any- 
thing, and  have  property  worth,  at  the  most 


THE    RUINED    GAMESTER.  13 

moderate  valuation,  sixty  thousand  dollars. 
And  more  than  that,"  I  added,  drawing  her 
tenderly  to  my  side,  and  kissing  her  still  fair 
cheek,  "  I  have  a  dear  good  wife,  and  three 
sweet  children.  Am  I  not,  indeed,  a  happy 
man  ?" 

Caroline  did  not  reply,  but  leaned  her  head 
confidingly  against  me.  I  looked  into  her 
face,  and  saw  that  tears  were  stealing  out  be- 
neath her  closed  eye-lids. 

"  Dear  Caroline !"  I  said,  in  a  voice  that 
expressed  the  concern  I  felt,  "  are  you  not 
happy?" 

"  Happy!"  she  uttered  in  a  low,  eloquent 
voice,  hiding  her  face  in  my  bosom,  "  O, 
yes  !  I  fear,  sometimes,  that  I  am  too  happy." 

"  But  is  not  that  an  idle  fear,  Caroline  ?"  I 
asked. 

"  It  may  be — it  must  be !  But  I  had  a  fright- 
ful dream  last  night." 

"  Dreams  are  nothing,  Caroline.  Or,  at 
best,  but  mere  phantasies  of  the  imagination, 
while  reason  slumbers." 

"  So  I  have  tried  to  argue.  But  there  come 
into  my  mind,  when  I  thus  endeavour  to  rea 
son  with  myself,  so  many  instances  wherein 
dreams  have  proved  real  warnings,  of  ap- 
proaching evil,  that  I  cannot  divest  myself 
of  the  idea  that  the  dream  which  T  have  had, 
has  been  sent  to  me  for  some  good  purpose ; 
that  it  is  not  a  mere  phantasy." 

"  Tell  me  your  dream,  Caroline,"  I  now 

2 


J4  THE    RUINED    GAMESTER. 

said,  the  seriousness  with  which  it  had  im- 
.  pressed  her,  causing  me  to  feel  a  desire  to 
hear  a  relation  of  it.  She  paused  a  few 
moments  to  collect  her  thoughts,  and  then 
said — 

"  I  dreamed  that  a  man,  whom  I  have  often 
seen  in  your  shop,  but  whose  name  I  do  not 
know,  came  here  and  invited  us  to  ride  with 
him  in  a  beautiful  carriage,  which  he  had 
driven  to  the  door.  The  horses,  noble  ani- 
mals, stood  arching  gracefully  their  necks 
and  champing  their  bits,  impatient  to  be  off. 
The  request  to  ride  was  followed  by  an  in- 
stant desire  on  my  part  to  acquiesce.  You 
made  no  objection,  and  in  a  little  while  we 
were  seated  in  the  carriage,  which  was  whirl- 
ed off  with  a  rapid  motion.  Our  way  was 
along  shaded  avenues,  that  ran  through  a 
most  lovely  region.  Tall  trees,  here  and 
there,  arched  over  our  way,  forming  perfect 
arbours.  Amid  their  branches  were  birds, 
some  with  rich  plumage,  and  some  that  made 
the  air  tremble  with  delicious  music.  The 
fields  were  studded  with  fruit  trees,  hung 
with  tempting  fruit;  or,  vineyards  stretched 
away  in  many  a  graceful  undulation,  in  which 
were  young  men  and  maidens,  singing  their 
vintage  songs,  as  they  plucked  the  juicy  clus- 
Hrs  from  the  overladen  vines.  All  the  senses 
were  delighted.  Sweet  odours  came  with 
every  gentle  breeze.  The  eye  and  ear  per- 
ceived a  new  charm  at  every  stage  of  our 


THE    RUINED    GAMESTER.  15 

\.  '; 

journey.  '  How  beautiful !'  I  had  just  said, 
turning  to  you,  when  a  wild  shriek  of  agony 
rang  upon  the  air.  It  was  the  voice  of  our 
own  dear  Ella  !  I  bent  in  eager  alarm  over 
the  side  of  the  carriage,  and  there  was  our 
child  writhing  beneath  the  wheels !  A  fiend- 
ish laugh  startled  my  ear  at  the  same  mo- 
ment. I  had  just  time  to  see  that  it  came 
from  the  lips  of  your  friend,  when  I  awoke. 
It  may  all  be  an  idle  phantom  of  the  imagi- 
nation. Perhaps  it  is.  But  it  has  troubled 
my  heart  deeply." 

My  wife  ceased,  and  I  endeavoured  to 
laugh  her  out  of  her  vain  fears.  But  the  re- 
lation of  her  dream  had  affected  her  mind  a 
good  deal — so  much  so,  that  her  spirits  did 
not  rally  for  some  time.  It  was,  perhaps,  an 
hour  after,  that  my  old  boyish  companion, 
George  Fuller,  with  whom  I  had  played  my 
last  game  at  marbles,  dropped  into  my  shop. 
He  had,  like  myself,  been  apprenticed  to  a 
trade,  and  now. was  apparently  well  to  do  in 
the  world.  His  place  of  business  was  not 
far  from  mine.  As  tradesmen  whose  business 
not  unfrequently  brought  them  into  contact 
with  each  other,  we  were  often  in  each  other's 
shops,  and  sometimes  met  and  drank  together 
in  a  tavern.  On  this  occasion,  he  said,  as 
he  came  in — 

"  A  happy  New  Year,  James. 

"  The  same  to  you,  with  all  my  heart,"  I 
replied 


16  THE    RUINED   GAMESTER.  i» 

"  Come,  then,  let  us  go  round  to  Hall's  (a 
house  of  refreshment)  and  drink  to  a  hundred 
happy  returns  of  this  pleasant  season." 

I  went  without  the  slightest  hesitation.  I 
was  in  the  habit  of  going  daily  to  Hall's 
sometimes  in  company  with  Fuller ;  some- 
times with  other  men,  and  often  alone.  I  had 
become  social  in  my  feelings,  and  was  fond 
of  a  friendly  glass. 

This  time,  as  it  was  New  Year's  Day,  I 
remained  longer,  and  drank  more  freely  than 
usual.  It  was  a  little  matter  of  courtesy  for 
one  friend  to  invite  another  to  drink,  and  this 
courtesy  Fuller  was  more  free  in  extending 
than  I  had  ever  before  known  him.  Every 
fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  he  would  see  some 
one  in  the  bar-room  with  whom  he  was  ex- 
tremely glad  to  meet ;  would  give  him  the 
compliments  of  the  season ;  shake  hands  with 
a  great  show  of  cordiality,  and  then  invite 
him  to  drink.  Of  course,  I  could  not  refuse 
to  join  them,  and,  to  tell  the. truth,  felt  in  no 
way  disinclined  to  unite  in  these  evidences 
of  kind  feelings  and  good  fellowship.  This 
continued  until  I  had  taken  several  drinks, 
each  pretty  strong;  for  Fuller  usually  took 


up  the  decanter  and  charged  my  glass  heavier 
than  I  had  ventured  to  do  myself,  chiding  me, 
jocosely,  as  he  did  so,  with  being  afraid  of 
good  liquors. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour,  my  head  began  to 
feel  a  little  light,  but  nothing  of  consequence. 


i* 

THE    RUINED    GAMESTER.  17 

i.  s 

I  was  in  a  lively,  talkative  mood,  and  disposed 
to  boast  of  my  success  in  business,  and  to 
allude  with  a  self-satisfied  air  to  the  comfort- 
able way  in  which  I  was  off  in  the  world. 
This  subject  seemed  peculiarly  interesting  to 
Fuller,  and  he  listened  with  attention  to  all 
I  said,  and  eneouraged  me  to  run  on  in  my 
pleasant  theme. 

"  Few  mechanics  have  prospered  in  busi- 
ness to  the  same  extent  that  you  have,"  he 
remarked  to  something  I  had  said. 

"  You  are  right,  there,  Fuller,"  I  returned, 
boastingly.  "  Few,  if  any.  Show  me  the 
man  who,  in  ten  years,  starting  from  nothing, 
has  become  worth  sixty  thousand  dollars,  all 
told  !  It  '11  be  hard  to  find  him,  I  'm  think- 
ing!" 

;•  "  But  you  are  not  worth  sixty  thousand 

dollars,"  he  said. 

"  Ain't  I  though  ?"  was  my  reply.  "  Come 
round  to  my  store  this  afternoon,  and  I  '11 
show  you  my  bank-book,  all  balanced,  and 
forty  thousand  standing  to  my  credit !" 

"  Indeed  \  You  surprise  me,"  he  said.  "  I 
didn't  dream  you  were  so  flush  as  that.  For- 
ty thousand  in  hard  cash  !  Really,  you  have 
been  fortunate !" 

"  I  've  attended  to  my  business — been  pru- 
dent in  all  my  dealings,  and  economical  in 
my  expenditures.  These  are  my  cardinal 
virtues." 

The  particulars  in  regard   to  my  aflairs 
2* 


, 


18  THE   RUINED    GAMES!  Elt. 

which  I  had  so  freely  stated,  gave  my  friend 
peculiar  pleasure.  It  seemed  as  if  he  couldn't 
get  done  alluding  to  them,  or  praising  me  for 
my  great  success.  I  felt  much  flattered  at 
this,  and  invited  him  to  drink  twice  while  we 
vet  dwelt  on  the  subject. 

We  were  still  at  the  bar,  when  a  well- 
dressed,  gentlemanly  man  came  up,  to  whom 
Fuller  spoke  in  a  friendly,  familiar  way,  and 
then  introduced  to  me  as  a  Mr.  Harryman. 
He  was  exceedingly  affable  at  once;  ordered 
a  room,  a  bottle  of  wine,  and  cigars,  and  in- 
sisted upon  our  joining  him  in  a  health  to 
the  happy  New  Year.  Fuller  yielded  with- 
out hesitation  to  the  invitation,  and  I,  after  a 
little  urging  from  both  of  them,  consented  to 
make  one  of  the  party. 

I  found  Harryman  a  very  pleasant  man, 
indeed.  He  had  travelled  much,  both  in  Eu- 
rope and  in  this  country,  and  seemed  to  have 
been  a  traveller  with  open  eyes.  His  rela- 
tions of  scenes  and  incidents  abroad  were, 
to  me,  very  interesting.  He  was,  likewise, 
full  of  anecdote,  and  told  a  story  with  pecu- 
liarly fine  effect.  And  with  all  these  fasci- 
nations, he  combined  great  suavity  of  man- 
ners, and  was  remarkably  attentive  to  his 
two  guests. 

After  sitting  for  an  hour,  I  made  a  move 
ment  to  go.     This  he  objected  to  at  once — • 
ringing  the  bell  at  the  same  time  and  remark- 
•ng- 


THE   RUINED   GAMESTER.  19 

"We  must  see  the  bottom  of  another  bot- 
tle of  wine  first.  New  Year's  Day  only 
comes  once  in  a  twelvemonth." 

To  this,  however,  I  objected  positively.    I 
had  taken  as  much  wine  as  I  thought  pru-          £ 
dent. 

"  You  and  Fuller  must  dine  with  me,  then," 
he  said.  ^ 

"  You  are  very  kind,  sir,  but  you  must 
really  excuse  me,"  I  replied. 

"  I  won't  take  any  excuse  at  all.  You 
must  dine  with  me  to-day.  I  have  been  look- 
ing for  our  good-natured  friend,  Fuller,  all 
the  morning,  and  think  myself  quite  fortunate 
in  finding  you  in  his  company.  He  will  not 
go  of  course.  I  always  have  a  few  friends 
to  dine  with  me  on  New  Year's  Day — clever 
fellows  all,  who  like  a  good  dinner,  a  good 
glass  of  wine,  a  good  song,  and  a  good  cigar. 
You  must  make  one  of  the  party.  So  you 
might  as  well  say  'yes'  at  once,  for  I  never 
take  '  no'  for  an  answer  on  these  occasions." 

His  frankness,  and  the  earnestness  of  his 
manner,  made  me  feel  inclined  to  yield.  But 
I  thought  of  my  wife  and  home,  and  urged 
my  family  as  a  reason  for  not  wishing  to  ac- 
cept the  invitation. 

"  Come,  now  !  That 's  a  little  selfish,"  he 
said,  half-seriously.  "  You  dine  with  your 
family  every  day  in  the  year.  Surely  you 
might  spare  one  social  hour  for  your  friends." 

Thus  he  urged,  and  I,  finally,  consented 


I 

20  THE    RUINED    GAMESTER. 

and  promised  to  be  at  his  house  punctually 
at  two  o'clock.     When  I  had  made  this  pro 
mise,  I  arose  and  said  that  I  must  now  re- 
turn to  my  store  as  I  had  some  business  to 
transact. 

"  Do  you  know  where  my  house  is  1"  ask- 
ed Harryman,  as  I  made  this  motion  to  leave 
'?          my  pleasant  companions. 

"  I  do,  if  he  does  not,"  Fuller  said,  prompt- 
ly, "  and,  of  course,  I  shall  call  for  him." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  you  are  very  kind,"  the 
stranger  returned.  "Come  early.  I  always 
like  to  see  my  friends'  faces  some  time  before 
dinner  is  served,  in  order  to  have  full  time 
to  discuss  a  good  sharpener." 

I  then  retired,  leaving  Harryman  and  Ful- 
ler together  in  the  room  where  we  had  been 
sitting.  As  I  walked  through  the  bar,  I  was 
conscious  that  I  had  taken  rather  too  much 
liquor.  My  head  swam  a  little,  and  all  my 
limbs  felt  heavy.  To  throw  off  the  effects 
of  my  too  free  indulgence,  or  at  least  to  abate 
them  in  some  degree  before  going  home,  I 
stepped  into  one  of  the  little  alcoves,  or 
"  boxes "  where  oysters  were  eaten,  took 
from  the  castor  the  vinegar  cruet,  and  drank 
about  one  half  of  its  contents.  After  this 
my  head  felt  clearer.  To  aid  still  further 
the  work  of  restoration,  I  went  into  the  wash- 
room of  the  establishment,  and  dashed  cold 
water  copiously  •  over  my  neck  and  face. 
This  re'  ived  me  very  much.  I  then  went 


THE   RUINED    GAMESTER.  21 

home,  and  gave  attention  to  my  business  un- 
til one  o'clock. 

Caroline  was  out  when  I  returned,  and  did 
not  get  home  until  the  hour  just  mentioned. 
As  she  lingered  in  the  store,  previous  to  go- 
ing into  the  house,  I  said  to  her  — 

"  Caroline,  I  have  promised  to  dine  out  to- 
day." 


"  To  dine  out  !"  she  ejaculated,  in  surprise, 


With  a  Mr.  Harryman,"  1  said.     "  But 


and  with  a  look  of  disappointment. 

"  Yes,"  I  said.  "  I  made  a  promise  this 
morning  that  I  would  dine  with  a  friend,  and 
shall  have  to  keep  it,  though  I  should  like  to 
get  off  if  I  could  do  so  without  violating  my 
word." 

"  Who  are  you  going  to  dine  with  1"  my 
wife  asked,  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  choke 
her.  I 


you  don't  know  him.  He 's  a  very  pleasant, 
gentlemanly  man,  who  gives  a  dinner  to  his 
friends  every  New  Year's  Day.  He  seemed 
so  anxious  to  have  me  join  his  little  com- 
pany, that  1  really  could  not  refuse  him.  ^ 
You  must  excuse  me  this  time;  and  I  will 
take  care  not  to  yield  again  to  any  man's 
persuasion  to  dine  away  from  my  family  on 
New  Year's  Day." 

Caroline  tried  to  smile  approvingly,  but 
I  could  see  that  it  was  not  from  the  heart. 
She  wanted  to  appear  satisfied,  but  her  real 
feelings  were  too  strong.  Turning  away 


;>  . 

22  THE    RUINED    GAMESTER. 

slowly,  she  retired  into  the  house,  and  left 
me  to  my  own  thoughts.  I  now  regretted, 
exceedingly,  that  I  had  been  induced  to  pass 
my  word  that  I  would  dine  with  Harryman, 
a  person  whom  I  had  never  before  seen,  and 


whose  dinner  associates  might  not  be  at  all 
congenial. 

In  about  half  an  hour  after  my  wife  came 
in,  Fuller  called  for  me  as  he  had  promised. 


Just  at  that  moment  Caroline  opened  the 
door  leading  from  the  dwelling  into  my  store, 
but  closed  it  immediately  on  perceiving  that 
there  was  some  one  there  besides  myself.  I 
stepped  back  into  the  house  to  see  if  she 
wanted  anything. 

"  Who  is  that  man  ?"  she  asked,  with  some 
concern  depicted  in  her  face. 

"Why,  don't  you  know  him?"  I  said. 

"  Not  his  name,  though  I  have  often  seen 
him  in  the  store." 

"  That  is  Mr.  Fuller,"  I  remarked.  "  We 
have  been  acquaintances  since  boyhod." 

"  Is  it  ?  Well,  that  's  the  very  man  I  saw 
in  my  dream  !  The  very  man  with  whom 
we  rode  out,  and  who  proved  to  be  a  demon 
in  disguise  !" 

"  Nonsense,  Caroline!"  I  replied.  "Why 
will  you  let  a  foolish  dream  make  such  an 
impression  on  your  mind." 

"  I  may  be  very  foolish,  dear,  but  I  can't 
help  it.  I  have  felt  all  the  morning  as  if 
there,  was  some  evil  hang«ng  over  us.  I  ne- 

I  I 


THE    IIUINED    GAMESTER.  23 

S 

ver  felt  so  before.     Is  this  Mr.  Fuller  going 
to  dine  with  you?" 

I  replied  in  the  affirmative;  and  that  he 
had  called  for  me  to  go  with  him.  This 
seemed  to  cause  her  acute  pain  of  mind, 
against  which  she  evidently  struggled  hard. 
In  this  state  I  left  her,  and,  joining  Fuller, 
started  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Harryman's 
dwelling. 


CHAPTER  III. 


\  I 

"  WHO  is  this  Harryman  ?"  I  asked  of  Ful- 


"  WHO  is  this  Harryman  ?"  I  asked  of  Ful- 
ler, as  soon  as  we  had  gained  the  street. 

"Why  have  you  never  heard  of  him?" 
my  friend  replied,  in  some  surprise. 

"  No.  I  don't  remember  ever  to  ha/e  seen 
or  heard  of  him  before." 

"  Is  it  possible  !  Why  I  thought  everybody 
knew  him.  He  is  one  of  the  most  gentleman- 
ly, kind-hearted  men  in  the  world — hospita- 
ble and  generous  to  a  fault.  His  fortune  is 
ample,  yielding  him  an  income  far  above  his 
wants.  This  he  delights  to  spend  with  those 
to  whom  he  happens  to  take  a  fancy.  And 
in  choosing  his  friends,  he  is  not  in  any  way 
governed  by  the  condition,  whether  high  01 
low,  that  they  happen  to  occupy  in  life.  He 
asks  what  the  man  is  ?  not  what  he  has  got, 


24  THE    RUINED    GAMESTER. 

<  *" 

or  what  rank  he  holds  ?  To  him,  an  honest, 
good  fellow,  whether  a  mechanic  or  a  lord, 
is  a  brother.  I  have  known  him  now  for 
about  six  months,  and  have  yet  to  discover 
in  him  a  mean  or  selfish  action.  The  fact  is, 
he  is  too  good,  too  generous,  too  unsuspect- 
ing, and,  therefore,  suffers  some  parasites  to 
cling  to  him,  and  drain  from  him  large  sums 
of  money." 

"  Has  he  lived  here  long?"  I  asked. 

"  About  two  years,"  was  the  reply.  "  His 
father  was  a  large  planter  in  South  Carolina. 
When  he  died,  the  whole  of  his  immense 
estates  passed  into  his  hands.  Not  caring  to 
remain  at  the  South,  he  sold  off  his  planta- 
tions and  slaves,  and  with  the  proceeds  re- 
moved to  this  city  and  invested  them  in  real 
estate  and  stocks.  Upon  the  income  arising 
from  these,  which  is  ample,  he  now  lives." 

These  brief  details  interested  and  flattered 
me.  It  was  evident  that  he  had  seen  some- 
thing in  me  that  pleased  him,  or  he  would 
not  have  been  so  warm  in  his  invitation  to 
dine. 

"  But,"  I  said,  after  a  little  thought,  "  I 
.don't  feel  exactly  sure  that  I  ought  to  go  to 
his  house.  I  cannot  reciprocate;  for,  you 
know,  I  never  give  dinner  parties." 

"  As  to  that,  neither  do  I.  And  I  have 
been  to  his  house  several  times,"  replied  Ful- 
ler. "  The  fact  is,  he  don't  expect  it.  I 
know  u  number  who  are  constant  partakers 


THE    RTTIXED   GAMESTER.  25 

of  his  hospitality,  but  who  never  dream  of 
inviting  him  to  their  houses  in  return." 

This  quieted  my  scruples.  When  we  ar-  . 
rrived  at  the  residence  of  Mr.  Harryman, 
which  was  a  very  handsome  one,  and  richly 
furnished,  situated  in  a  fashionable  part  of 
the  city,  I  found  a  company  of  siy  or  seven 
gentlemen.  Fuller  was  on  terms  of  familiar- 
ity, and  even  intimacy  with  all.  This  I  could 
not  help  remarking  to  myself  as  a  little  sin- 
gular ;  for  he  was  evidently  their  inferior  in 
refinement,  education,  and  intelligence. 

I  was  received  by  Harryman  with  marked 
attention,  and  in  the  most  courteous  manner 
by  his  friends,  who,  it  appeared,  had  all  been 
apprised  that  I  was  to  make  one  of  the  com- 
pany, a  piece  of  information  which,  it  seem- 
ed, had  given  them  particular  pleasure  ;  why, 
I  could  not  tell — but  it  flattered  my  vanity, 
and  that  was  sufficient.  t 

"  And  now  for  a  sharpener,"  said  our  host, 
after  some  chit-chat  about  the  weather,  and 
other  little  matters,  rising  as  he  spoke,  and 
going  to  a  side-table  upon  which  were  a  de- 
canter of  brandy,  a  pitcher  of  water,  with 
glasses,  sugar,  &c.  Each  one  of  the  glasses 


he  poured  about  half 'full  of  brandy;  put  ir. 


several  large  lumps  of  sugar,  and  filled  up 
with  water. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  after  all  was  ready, 
"  take  something  to  whet  your  appetites." 

It  requiied  no  second  invitation.  We  all 
3 


2fi  THE    RUINED    GAMESTER. 

drained  our  glasses  to  the  bottom,  praising 
his  good  liquor  as  we  did  so.  And  well  we 
might ;  for  it  was  of  the  very  best  quality — 
smooth  and  oily,  but  full  of  latent  life.  A 
lively  and  pleasant  conversation  followed. 

When  dinner  was  announced,  I  was  the 
first  to  be  handed  out,  and  at  the  table,  which 
was  spread  with  all  the  luxuries  of  the  sea- 
son, I  was  of  most  consideration.  I  could  not 
help  feeling  flattered  at  all  these  marks  of 
distinction.  The  surprise  they  at  first  occa- 
sioned gradually  gave  way,  as  I  began  to 
think  that  there  must  certainly  appertain  to 
me  some  superior  intrinsic  merit,  of  which  I 
alone  had  been  unconscious.  I  was,  doubt- 
less of  much  more  consequence  in  the  eyes 
of  others  than  I  had  given  myself  credit  for. 
When  the  wine  began  to  be  passed  around 
the  table,  my  glass  was  the  first  that  was  fill- 
ed, and  my  health  the  oftenest  drunk.  Under 
this  system,  long  before  the  cloth  was  re- 
moved, and  cigars  introduced,  my  head  had 
become  a  good  deal  obscured.  With  the  ci- 
gars came  a  fresh  instalment  of  wine,  of 
which  I  was  almost  compelled  to  drink,  even 
more  freely  than  during  the  regular  courses 
of  dinner. 

How  long  we  were  thus  engaged  in  smok- 
ing and  drinking,  Iknow  not.  The  end  was, 
that  I  became  so  much  intoxicated  as  to  go 
to  sleep.  When  I  awoke,  I  found  myself  ly- 
ing upon  a  sofa,  with  my  boon  companions 


THE   RUINED   GAMESTER.  21 

sill,  surrounding  the  table,  and  apparently  as 
much  interested  in  their  wine  and  cigars  as 
before.  But  the  day  had  declined — for  lamps 
were  burning.  I  felt  wretched.  My  head 
ached.  I  was  feverish — heavy,  and  stiff  in 
I;  every  joint.  The  moment  I  raised  up,  I  was 
urged  to  drink  again,  to  which  solicitation  I 
acceded,  and  soon  felt  something  better.  In 
a  little  w*hile,  Fuller  purposed  that  we  should 
retire,  as  it  was  late.  On  glancing  at  the 
clock,  I  saw  that  it  was  after  eight,  and  im- 
mediately rose  to  go.  Before  leaving  the 
room,  however,  a  parting  glass  had  to  be 
taken,  and  this  was  something  stronger  than 
we  had  yet  indulged  in.  It  was  brandy  tod- 
dy made  very  sweet,  and,  of  course,  very 
strong.  I  turned  off  a  large  glass  of  the  at- 
tractive compound,  and  then  bidding  the  po- 
lite, attentive,  and  hospitable  Mr.  Harryman 
good  evening,  emerged  into  the  street  in  com- 
pany with  Fuller.  As  we  proceeded  along, 
my  head  a  good  deal  confused,  my  companion 
alluded  to  business,  and  also  to  the  slow  pro- 
cess by  which  we  were  able  to  acquire  mo- 
ney. I  readily  acquiesced  in  this.  We  had 
proceeded  about  halfway  toward  home,  when 
Fuller  paused  upon  the  corner  of  a  cross 
street,  and  said — 

"  There  is  a  chance  for  you  to  make  a  clear 
thousand  to-night,  if  you  will." 

"  There  is  ?"  responded  I,  pricking  up  my 
eais. 


.28  THE    RUINED   GAMESTEK. 

?  J 

"  Yes,  there  is ;  and  such  a  chance  does 
not  occur  every  month.  A  thousand  dollars 
made  in  one  night  is  not  an  ordinary  trans- 
action." 

I  readily  assented  to  this,  and  then  asked 
him  to  explain  himself. 

"  Do  you  see  that  dim  light,  so  dim  as  to 
be  scarcely  seen,  away  up  in  the  third  story 
of  that  old  house  ?"  Pointing  as  he*  spoke  to 


a  dark,  ancient,  gloomy-looking  building. 
"  I  believe  there  is  a  light  up  there,"  I  said. 


"But  what  of  it?" 

"  Let  us  go  up  there.    Come !" 

"  What  for  ?"  I  asked. 

"  You  can  win  a  thousand  dollars  there, 
to-night,"  he  whispered  in  my  ear. 

"Are  you  sure?"  I  inquired,  too  much  in- 
toxicated to  be  able  to  make  any  moral  dis- 
criminations. 

"  O  yes !  I  am  as  sure  as  that  I  am  stand- 
ing here.  You  know  Harryman  with  whom 
we  have  dined  ?  He  is  one  of  the  vainest  and 
weakest  men  I  ever  knew ;  and  makes  him- 
self a  laughing-stock  to  all  his  friends.  Among 
his  other  follies  is  this.  He  thinks  himself  a 
perfect  prince  at  cards,  and  under  this  silly 
notion,  which  the  loss  already  of  some  forty 
or  fifty  thousand  dollars  of  his  magnificent 
fortune  ought  to  have  arrested,  he  nightly 
loses  large  sums  of  money.  He  is  in  the  room 
from  which  that  dim  light  proceeds  now,  and 
has  opened  a  faro-table .  you  might  just  as 


\ 

THE    RUINED    GAMESTER.  29 

well  take  from  him  a  cool  thousand  as  any 
one  else." 

The  sneering  tone  in  which  Fuller  spoke 
of  Harryman,  so  different  from  that  which 
he  had  used  while  we  were  on  our  way  to 
his  house  before  dinner,  did  not  strike  me  as 
strange.  The  reason  can  easily  be  guessed 
by  the  reader.  A  man  half  intoxicated  is 
too  often  like  a  man  in  a  dream — he  thinks 
nothing  strange  or  incongruous. 

"But  I  know  nothing  of  faro,"  I  objected. 

"  I  do,  though ;  and  I  '11  initiate  you  at 
once.  So  come  along !"  Saying  this,  he  gave 
my  arm  a  pull,  and  I  stalked  on  mechanically 
by  his  side.  In  a  little  while,  we  entered  a 
dark  alley,  and  after  groping  along  for  some 
time,  came  to  a  door  which  we  opened,  and  as- 
cended a  narrow,  unlighted  staircase.  In  the 
third  story  of  the  building,  we  emerged  into 
a  room,  dimly  lighted,  in  which  I  found  Har- 
ryman seated  at  a  table  with  a  silver  box  be- 
fore him,  in  which  was  a  pack  of  cards;  two 
or  three  of  the  dinner-party,  all  of  whom  I 
had  left  but  a  short  time  before  in  a  distant 
part  of  the  city,  were  also  there.  Brief  greet- 
ings took  place,  and  then  faro  was  proposed. 
I  again  objected  on  account  of  not  under- 
standing the  game.  This  was  at  once  over- 
ruled by  my  friend  Fuller,  who  whispered  in 
my  ear  that  he  would  guide  me,  and  that  I 


was  certain  of  winning. 

Thus  instigated,  I  took  from  my  pocket- 


was  not  long  before  I  became  so  absorbed  in 


1 


30  THE    RUINED    GAMESTER. 

i  \ 

book  a  fifty  dollar  note,  and  exchanged  it  for 
"  chips,"  or  "  counters."  With  these  I  com- 
menced betting,  under  the  direction  of  my 
friend — at  the  same  time  that  I  was  so  intoxi- 
cated as  to  be,  in  regard  to  my  thoughts,  all 
in  confusion.  At  every  stage  of  the  game, 
the  principle  was  explained  to  me,  though  but 
dimly  apprehended.  Whenever  I  won,  or 
lost,  Fuller  informed  me.  For  a  time,  I  was 
mainly  the  winner ;  but,  after  the  first  half  \ 
hour,  I  had  to  resort  to  my  pocket-book  again, 
and  at  frequent  intervals  from  that  time.  It 


the  game,  as  to  be  less  dependent  upon  Ful- 
ler. I  could  understand  its  general  drift,  and 
could  tell  for  myself  whether  I  lost  or  won. 
This  being  the  case,  he  gradually  ceased  to 
prompt  me,  and  for  a  time  I  forgot  him  alto- 
gether. The  loss  of  three  hundred  dollars 
at  last  sobered  me.  I  looked  around  the 
room,  and  became  aware,  for  the  first  time, 
that  I  was  alone  with  Harryman.  My  first 
thought  was  to  stop  at  once,  and  retire  from 
the  place.  But  the  hope  of  winning  back 
my  money,  led  me  to  continue  to  bet,  until 
every  dollar  I  had  in  my  pocket-book,  amount- 
ing in  all  to  nearly  eight  hundred  dollars, 
was  gone. 


THE    R LINED    GAMESTER.  31 


I  CHAPTER  IV. 

IT  was  past  two  o'clock  when  I  paus<  d  at 
my  own  door,  perfectly  sober  and  perfectly 
wretched.  How  could  I  meet  my  wife  ?  How 
could  I  breathe  again  the  same  air  with  my 
innocent  children  ?  I  stood  for  nearly  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  before  I  could  take  courage 
to  enter.  The  moment  I  opened  the  door,  I 
heard  a  movement  above,  and  in  an  instant 
afterwards  Caroline  came  hurrying  down  to 
meet  me.  To  her  anxious  inquiries  in  regard 
to  my  long  absence,  I  made  some  plausible 
excuse,  which  she  seemed  to  receive  as  satis- 
factory. But  I  could  see  that  her  mind  had 
been  too  much  disturbed  to  permit  its  agitat- 
ed waves  to  subside  in  a  moment.  Neither 
of  us  slept  much  that  night,  although  each 
sought  earnestly  to  find  forgetfulness  in  sleep. 
Side  by  side  we  lay,  through  the  dark  watches 
of  that  night,  silent,  but  with  busy  thoughts. 
What  were  her  fears,  anxieties,  or  forebod- 
ings, I  knew  not.  My  own  reflections  were 
such  as  were  calculated  to  drive  a.  weaker 
man  to  self-destruction. 

On  the  next  morning,  I  met  my  wife  and 
children  at  the  breakfast  table.  But  I  could 
not  converse  with  them  as  usual.  I  answer 
ed  all  the  questions  of  my  happy  little  prat 


32  THE    RUINED    GAMESTER. 

tiers  in  monosyllables,  and  even  repulsed 
their  fond  caresses,  for  I  was  annoyed  by 
them.  I  soon  arose  from  the  table ; — as  I  did 
so,  I  looked  at  my  wife.  Her  eyes  were  upon 
me,  and  her  look  of  anxious,  troubled  inqui- 
ry, smote  my  heart.  I  felt  for  a  single  mo- 
ment like  confessing  all  to  her.  But  pride 
forbade,  and  I  turned  away  and  entered  my 
shop.  I  did  not  remain  there  long.  I  could 
not.  My  mind  was  not  upon  my  business. 
The  first  place  to  which  I  went,  was  to  the 
store  of  my  false  friend  Fuller,  whose  base 
betrayal  of  me,  however,  I  did  not  then  sus- 
pect. He  looked  slightly  confused  when  1 
entered,  but  became  instantly  self-possessed. 

"  Ah,  good  morning !  Good  morning !"  he 
said,  with  animation.  "  How  did  you  come 
off  last  night  ?  Winner,  I  hope  ?" 

"Winner!"  I  rejoined,  somewhat  indig- 
nantly "Of  course  not.  How  could  I  win 
in  the  condition  I  was  when  I  went  to  that 
accursed  place?" 

"  But  you  did  not  lose  anything  of  conse- 
quence, I  hope  ?"  he  said,  inquiringly. 

I  perceived  in  a  moment  that  there  was  in 
the  tone  of  his  voice  an  anxiety  to  know  how 
far  I  had  lost.  But  the  meaning  of  that  anxi- 
ety I  did  not  then  understand. 

"  Yes  I  did,  though,"  I  replied ;  "  I  lost 
eight  hundred  dollars." 

"  Impossible !" 


THE    RUINED    GAMESTER.  3 

"  It  is  too  true.  And  I  must  blame  you 
for  it." 

"  Blame  me !"  and  his  countenance  grew 
concerned.  "  How  can  you  possibly  blame 
me?" 

"  Didn't  you  take  me  there  ?" 

"  I  did.  But,  then,  you  were  my  friend, 
and  I  was  sure  you  would  win  at  least  a  thou- 


sand dollars." 


"  How  could  you  have  been  sure  of  that, 


when  you  knew  that  I  was  deeply  in  liquor?" 

"  You  in  liquor  !  Oh,  no  !  I  saw  nothing 
of  that." 

"  But  I  was,  though.  And  to  win  money 
from  me  while  in  that  state,  was  little  better 
than  robbery."  « 

"  Something  must  have  been  wrong  with 
you,  certainly,  to  have  lost  as  you  did  to  such 
an  indifferent  player  as  Harryman.  Why, 
anybody  can  beat  him.  But  you  were  the 
last  person  I  should  ever  have  suspected  of 
being  in  liquor.  Had  I  dreamed  of  such  a 
thing,  I  would  not  have  permitted  you  to  risk  a 
dollar.  But  it  is  too  late  now.  I  never  cry 
over  spilled  milk.  That's  my  motto." 

"  Eight  hundred  dollars  is  no  trifle  to  let 
go  without  a  thought,"  I  replied. 

"  Of  course  it  is  not :  and  of  course  you 
do  not  intend  letting  it  go  without  a  thought." 


"  And  yet,  what  good  will  thinking  about 


it  do  ?"  I  said,  with  some  bitterness. 


34  THE    RUINED   GAMESTER. 

"  Mere  thinking  will  not,  of  course,  but 
acting  will." 

"  How  shall  I  act  ?  I  see  no  way.  He 
has  won  my  money  from  me,  and, there  the 
matter  will  have  to  end." 

"O  no,  —  of  course  not.  Win  it  back 
again." 

"Win  it  back  again?"  I  ejaculated,  in 
surprise. 

"  Yes — certainly.  You  don't  for  a  moment 
think  of  letting  Harryman  have  your  eight 
hundred  dollars,  when  you  have  only  to  win 
them  back  again  without  the  slightest  trou- 
ble. He  can't  play." 

"  So  you  said  last  night,"  I  returned. 
"  And  what  has  been  the  result.  A  loss  of 
eight  hundred  dollars !  And  besides,  I  have 
seen  enough  of  faro  to  be  satisfied  that  skill 
has  no  great  deal  to  do  in  the  matter.  It  is 
a  game  of  hazard." 

"  There  you  are  mistaken.  The  punter 
can  so  £lay  his  cards  as  to  break  almost  any 
bank.  To  do  this  some  skill  is  required,  but 
this  is  soon  gained.  You  own,  yourself,  that 
you  were  so  much  in  liquor  as  scarcely  to 
know  what  you  were  doing.  This  easily 
accounts  for  the  disastrous  result.  Why,  I 
have  known  a  dozen  instances,  in  which  he 
has  lost,  from  men  who  never  saw  a  faro-ta- 
ble before  in  their  lives." 

I  stood  thoughtful  for  a  little  while,  and 
then  asked — 


THE    RUINED    GAMESTER.  35 


•*  Didn't  you  represent  Mr.  Harryman  to 
me  as  one  of  the  most  generous,  good-hearted 
men  in  the  world?' 

"  Certainly  I  did ;"  was  the  prompt  an- 
swer. 

"  And  yet,  he  won  from  me  eight  hundred 
dollars  while  I  was  too  much  intoxicated  to 
know  what  I  was  about.  Is  that  generous 
and  good-hearted?" 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,"  interrupted  Fuller, 
•'  he  didn't  suppose,  for  a  moment,  that  you 
were   intoxicated.     How   should    he,   when          i> 
even  I  did  not  suspect  such  a  thing?" 

It  did  not  then  occur  to  me  that  I  had  be- 
come so  much  disguised  by  liquor  after  din- 
ner, as  to  go  to  sleep  and  remain  in  that  con- 
dition for  some  hours. 

"  Even  if  he  didn't  know  that  I  was  not          ; 
myself,"  I  argued,  "  was  it  an  act  of  hospi- 
tality to  invite  a  friend  to  dine  with  him,  and 
then  win  his  money  ?" 

"  But  remember,"  argued  Fuller,  "  that  he 
did  not  do  any  such  thing.  He  invited  you 
to  dine  with  him,  as  he  had  done  me,  ant' 
others,  and  treated  you  with  kindness  and 
attention.  Did  he  propose  cards,  or  any 
game  in  his  house?  No!  You  left  with  every 
dollar  in  your  pocket  that  you  had  taken 
there,  and  not  the  slightest  inducement  had 
been  held  out  for  you  to  play,  or  even  to 
meet  with  Harryman  at  another  place.  If 
any  one  is  to  blame  for  your  presence  at  the 


f  i 

d6  THE   RUINED   GAMESTER. 

faro-table,  I  am  the  man.  You  had  left  hi3 
house,  when  I,  knowing  where  he  would  be, 
proposed  that  you  should  win  from  him  a 
thousand  dollars  —  thinking  that  you  might 
have  it  as  well  as  any  one  else,  while  it  was 
going." 

Strangely  enough,  it  did  not  occur  to  me 
to  ask  how  it  happened,  that  Harryman  was 
in  a  gambling  room,  at  some  distance  from 
his  house,  when  we  had  left  him  at  the  latter 
place  a  few  minutes  before,  and  had  not  stop 
ped  anywhere  by  the  way. 

The  last  remark  of  Fuller  had  in  it  some 
degree  of  plausibility,  and  made  its  due  im- 
pression. My  own  mind  suggested  the  ques- 
tion how  far  1  had  been  actuated  by  a  gene- 
rous feeling  towards  a  friend  who  had  enter- 
tained me  handsomely,  when  I  deliberately 
proposed  to  myself,  a  few  minutes  after  leav- 
ing his  house,  to  win  from  him  the  sum  of 
one  thousand  dollars ;  and  actually  made  the 
attempt  to  do  so?  This  reflection  at  once 
closed  my  lips  to  further  complaints  of  un- 
generous treatment.  I  did  not  reply  to  the 
last  remark  of  Fuller,  for  it  had  started  a 
train  of  thoughts  by  no  means  flattering  to 
myself.  In  a  little  while  he  resumed,  and 
said — 

"  You  needn't  be  at  all  worried  about  your 
loss.  You  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  go  with 
a  cool  head,  and  win  every  dollar  of  your 


THE   RUINED   GAMESTER.  37 

money  back  again.     After  that  you  can  play 
or  not,  just  as  you  like." 

"  Give  me  back  my  eight  hundred  dollars,'* 
I  said,  with  warmth,  "  and  you  '11  never 
catch  another  counter  in  my  fingers.  Gam- 
bling is  a  dishonest  vice,  and  I  despise  it  from 


the  bottom  of  my  heart.  I  am  content  to 
live  on  the  honourable  gains  of  my  busi- 
ness." 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  that,"  he  replied,  a 
little  impatiently.  "  But  gambling  is  one 
thing,  and  getting  back  money  that  has  been 
little  better  than  swindled  from  you  is  an- 
other. At  least  so  it  strikes  me.  If  I  were 
in  your  place,  I  wouldn't  be  long  in  deter- 
mining what  to  do." 

"Well,  what  would  you  do?" 

"  Haven't  I  told  you  ?  Go  and  get  back 
my  own  to-night,  and  then  take  better  care 
of  it !" 

"  You  are  sure,  then,  that  I  could  win  it 
back?" 

"  Yes :  as  sure  as  I  know  you  have  a  clear, 
cool  head,  and  could,  if  perfectly  yourself, 
beat  Harryman  with  your  eyes  shut." 

"  I  can't  let  eight  hundred  dollars  go,  with- 
out an  effort  to  recover  them,  that  is  certain," 
I  said,  half  musingly. 

"  Of  course  not.  And  if  you  will  take  my 
advice,  you  are  certain  to  get  them  back  as 
you  are  alive;  and  a  thousand  dollars  to 


I 

1*8  THE    RUINED   GAMESTER. 

boot,  if  you  have  a  fancy  to  retaliate  a  lit- 
tle." 

"  No !"  I  returned  emphatically.  "  1  want 
no  man's  money  but  my  own." 

"  Then  reclaim  that.  There  will  not  be  a 
straw  in  your  way." 


CHAPTER  V. 

THUS  reasoned  with,  persuaded,  and  tempt 
ed,  I  was  again  induced,  with  five  hundred 
dollars  in  my  pocket,  to  present  myself  at 
the  faro-table,  and  attempt  to  win  back  the 
money  I  had  lost,  to,  as  I  afterwards  found 
out,  one  of  the  most  skilful,  as  well  as  the 
most  heartless,  unprincipled,  cheating  gam- 
blers in  the  whole  country.  I  went  at  ten 
o'clock  that  morning,  and  found  Harryman 
at  his  post.  He  received  me  in  the  most  affa- 
ble, urbane  manner  in  the  world ;  asked 
after  my  health,  and  jocosely  inquired  if  I 
had  come  to  get  back  the  little  loan  I  had 
made  to  him  on  the  previous  evening.  All 
this  tended  to  reassure  me  in  regard  to  his 
character  as  a  good-hearted,  liberal  fellow, 
who  cared  little  for  money,  and  had  a  pas- 
sion for  gaming.  I  entered  into  his  humour 
and  even  went  so  far  as  to  drink  with  him. 


THE    HUINED    GAMESTER.  39 


We  then  took  our  places  at  the  table.  I  re- 
collected enough  of  the  game,  even  though 
it  had  been  impressed  upon  my  memory  while 
half  intoxicated,  to  enable  me  to  proceed 
without  hesitation.  There  were  two  or  three 
lookers  on,  who  took  a  kind  of  laughing  in- 
terest in  the  game,  as  men  do  when  two  cocks 
are  pitted  against  each  other  without  gaffs. 
They  seemed  to  think  neither  of  us  could  do 
each  other  much  harm.  Harryman  asked 
them  to  join  us,  but  they  declined. 

This  assured  me  of  Harryman's  inefficiency 
as  a  player,  a  fact  so  strongly  dwelt  upon  by 
Fuller.  During  the  first  three  or  four  games, 
I  invariably  won,  not  a  little  to  the  apparent 
annoyance  of  my  adversary,  who  seemed  to 
grow  more  and  more  serious  every  moment. 
At  length  the  tables  were  turned.  The  cards 
began  to  come  up  in  favour  of  the  bank  oc- 
casionally, and  then,  two  or  three  in  succes- 
sion. An  entire  change  now  passed  over 
him.  I  could  see  that  his  eye  had  become 
quicker  in  its  movements,  and  that  he  was 
absorbed  entirely  in  what  he  was  doing. 
From  that  time  I  won  but  rarely.  My  stakes 
vanished  like  drops  of  dew  in  the  hot  sun- 
shine, until  the  whole  contents  of  my  pocket- 
book  had  passed  from  my  possession.  I  look- 
ed at  my  watch,  when  this  result  terminated 
the  morning's  work,  and  found  that  it  was 
one  o'clock,  my  usual  dinner  hour.  A  thought 
of  Caroline  made  me  instantly  turn  away, 


.•---•r-r--~--r~~-~-~~~^~~-~~~-~~-~~~-r-^~-'  ~"'-"v  -~--~-^-^  -^  ~  { 

\  \ 

40  THE  fcciNED   GAMESTER. 

;>  I 

and,  without  uttering  a  word,  leave  the  room 
and  hurry  home. 

"  What  has  kept  you  out  all  the  morning, 
dear  ?"  she  said,  tenderly,  and  with  evident 
concern,  as  I  came  in. 

"  Business,"  I  returned,  mechanically,  en- 
deavouring to  assume  a  cheerful  air.  But 
this  was  impossible.  I  had  sacrificed  five 
hundred  dollars  since  breakfast,  and  this,  add- 
ed to  eight  hundred  dollars  on  the  night  be- 
fore, made  a  sum,  the  loss  of  which — and  in 
such  a  way — I  could  not  bear  with  an  un- 
concerned exterior.  The  dinner  hour  passed 
in  silence.  I  forced  myself  to  eat,  all  the 
while  that  I  could  with  difficulty  retain  upon 
my  stomach  the  food  I  compelled  it  to  take. 
As  soon  as  I  could,  I  left  the  table,  and  retired 
to  my  store.  Here  I  was  occupied  with  cus- 
tomers for  about  an  hour,  and  then  followed 
a  season  of  leisure.  During  this,  and  while 
my  mind  was  yet  undecided  as  to  my  future 
course,  1  drew  a  check  for  one  thousand  dol 
lars,  and  sent  my  young  man  with  it  to  the 
bank  where  I  kept  my  account.  This  money 
I  placed  in  my  pocket-book,  without  any  de- 
finite acknowledged  intention  in  my  mind  in 
regard  to  its  use;  although,  in  the  almost  un- 
perceived  under-current  of  my  thoughts,  there 
was  a  looking  to  it  as  a  leverage-power 
whereby  I  was  to  wrench  from  Harryman's 
grasp  my  lost  thirteen  hundred  dollars. 

After  tea   that   evening  I   went  out  and 


THE   RUINED   GAMESTER.  41 

walked  the  streets  for  more  than  an  hour,  un- 
able to  decide  the  question  whether  I  should 
let  what  had  already  been  lost  go  without  a 
struggle  to  regain  it,  or  make  another  effort. 
I  thought  over  all  the  incidents  of  the  morn- 
ing carefully ;  reviewed  the  operations  of 
my  own  mind  while  engaged  in  playing,  and 


L 


slowly  passed  before  my  mind's  eye  the  looks, 
manners,  and  actions  of  Harryman.  In  re- 
gard to  him,  I  was  not  able  to  decide  whe- 
ther he  were  really  skilful  at  the  game  or 
not.  As  to  myself,  I  plainly  saw  that  I  had 
been  too  much  excited  to  study  the  cards ; 
and  that  I  had  relied  too  fully  upon  Fuller's 
oft-repeated  assurance,  that  my  adversary 
was  one  of  the  poorest  of  players.  I  was 
also  beginning  to  see  that  this  allegation  of 
being  a  poor  player  was  not  quite  so  plausi- 
ble as  at  first.  For  if  I  could  understand 
faro,  it  did  not  require  any  skill  at  all  on  the 
part  of  the  banker. 

This  being  the  state  of  my  mind,  it  was 
no  hard  matter  for  me  to  decide  to  make  one 
more  effort,  and,  in  it,  to  concentrate  all  my 
thoughts  upon  the  game.  Accordingly,  I 
once  more  left  the  crowded  street,  and  passed 
up  the  dark  alley  leading  to  the  room  before 
mentioned.  My  hospitable  friend  was  there 
engaged  in  playing  with  a  man  who  was  a 
stranger  to  me.  He  was  apparently  so  much 
engrossed  that  he  did  not  take  any  notice  of 
my  entrance,  but  continued  to  play,  as  if  his 


42  THE    RUINED    GAMESTER. 

\  * 

whole  soul  were  in  it.  I  looked  on  with  deep 
interest.  For  a  time  the  winnings  were  in 
favour  of  the  bank,  but  the  game  finally  went 
against  Harryman.  Every  time  the  cards 
were  cut  and  the  game  renewed,  the  same 
result  mainly  followed.  At  last,  after  losing 
about  two  thousand  dollars,  Harryman  de- 
clared that  he  would  play  no  longer.  } 

"  Agreed,"  was  the  brief  response  to  this, 
as  the  stranger  gathered  up  the  stakes,  put 
them  into  his  pocket,  and  silently  left  the 
room.  As  he  closed  the  door,  Harryman  ut- 
tered a  bitter  malediction  against  him,  and 
commenced  pacing  the  floor  in  a  very  dis- 
turbed manner.  He  had  continued  thus  for 
several  minutes,  seemingly  unconscious  of  the 
presence  of  any  one,  when,  on  lifting  his  head, 
our  eyes  met.  A  faint  smile  of  recognition 
passed  over  his  face,  and  he  gently  inclined 
his  head.  But  he  did  not  seem  particularly 
gratified  at  seeing  me,  nor  appear  disposed  to 
engage  me  in  play.  What  I  had  seen  en- 
couraged me  very  much.  It  was  corrobora- 
tive of  what  Fuller  had  told  me,  that  Harry- 
man frequently  lost  large  sums  of  money.  I 
was  now  assured,  that  if  I  played  with  care 
and  thought,  success  would  be  certain.  In 
a  litt'e  while,  I  proposed  that  we  should  try 
each  other  again.  He  did  not  seem  much  in- 
clined ;  said  that  cursed  loss  he  had  just  sus- 
tained had  dispirited  him,  and  made  him  un- 
fit to  play.  This  only  made  me  the  more 

I  •  _J 


twelve  o'clock,   when  my  thousand   dollars 


THE    RUINED    GAMESTER.  43 

eager.  I  accordingly  urged,  and  he  at  length 
>  consented. 

My  first  stake  was  fifty  dollars.  It  was 
doubled  to  me  on  turning  up  the  first  card. 

"  There !  I  knew  I  would  lose,"  he  said, 
half  pettishly.  "Luck  is  against  me  to- 
night." 

In  a  little  while  another  event  occurred, 
likewise  in  my  favour,  and  soon  another. 
This  seemed  to  worry  him  a  good  deal — in- 
deed he  became  quite  excited  about  it.  After 
this  the  tide  turned.  I  lost  repeatedly.  He 
manifested  marked  pleasure  at  this  result.  I 
won  again ;  and  then  lost  four  or  five  times 
in  succession.  Thus  we  continued  until 


\ 

had   followed  their  former  unfortunate  bre- 
thren. 

When  the  last  pictured  representative  of 
rny  hard-earned,  carefully-hoarded  thousand 
dollars  slipped  from  my  clinging  grasp,  I 
turned  from  the  faro-table  with  a  reeling 
brain.  I  felt  like  a  man  who  has  been  par- 
tially stunned  by  some  heavy  concussion.  I 
•was  like  one  in  a  troubled  dream.  As  I  gain- 
ed the  deserted  street,  the  shock  of  the  cold 
air  upon  my  burning  forehead  aroused  me 
into  distinct  consciousness.  Oh,  how  wretch- 
ed I  felt !  My  first  steps  were  taken  in  the 
direction  of  home;  but  a  thought  of  meeting 
my  wife  caused  me  to  stop.  How  could  I 
venture  to  go  home  with  my  mind  in  such  a 


L 


^  4<*  UHE    RUINED   GAMESTER. 

lever?  What  plausible  story  could  I  invent 
to  conceal  the  real  truth?  No!  I  could  not 
go  home.  In  a  state  bordering  upon  agony, 
*  I  walked  the  streets  until  night  had  far  ad- 
vanced towards  the  morning.  By  this  lime 
the  fever  of  my  brain  had  in  a  degree  sub- 
sided, and  I  ventured  to  return  to  my  home. 
I  found  my  wife  lying  across  the  bed  asleep, 
but  with  her  clothes  on.  Tears  were  on 
her  cheeks.  Oh  !  how  my  heart  bled  at  this 
sight ! 

"  Madman  !"  I  mentally  exclaimed,  strik- 
ing my  open  hand  against  my  forehead,  as  I 
commenced  pacing  the  floor.  Caroline  soon 
became  conscious  of  my  presence,  and  rous- 
ed up  with  an  exclamation  of  surprise  and 
grief. 

"Oh,  James!  Is  it  you  at  last?"  she  said,        > 
the  tears  flowing  afresh  as  soon  as  she  was 
fairly  awake.   "  Where,  oh  !  where  have  you 
been  ?    What  terrible   spell    is   upon   you  ? 
Surely,  all  this  must  be  a  frightful  dream !" 

"  A  dream !"  I  replied,  half  to  myself — 
"  a  dream !  Oh,  would  that  it  were  indeed  a 
dream !" 

"That  what  were  a  dream?  —  dear  hus 
band !  Oh,  keep  nothing  from  me,  James  ! 
Am  I  not  your  wife  ? — the  mother  of  your 
little  ones  ? — and  do  I  not  love  you  ?"  Caro- 
line said  w>  h  deep  and  heart-touching  pa- 
thos. 


THE    RUINED    GAMESTER.  45  \ 

But  I  could  not — I  dared  not  tell  her  the 
truth. 

"  It  is  nothing,  Caroline,  nothing,"  I  re- 
plied evasively.  "  Only  I  believe  I  am  going 
besiue  myself." 

The  look  of  deep  tenderness,  mingled  with 
exquisite  agony,  with  which  she  met  this  re- 
mark, I  can  never  forget.  I  could  not  bear 
it,  but  turned  my  eyes  away. 

She  now  urged  me  to  go  to  bed,  and  I  yield- 
ed mechanically.  But  I  did  not  sleep.  How  ;> 
could  I  ?  I  did  not  go  into  my  store  on  the 
next  morning  until  about  ten  o'clock.  I  found 
Fuller  there,  reading  the  morning  newspaper. 
He  seemed  to  feel  deeply  for  my  loss,  and 
blamed  himself  very  much  for  having  per- 
suaded me  to  play  with  Harryman.  He 
could  not,  for  his  life,  understand  how  it  was 
that  I  did  not  win.  Luck  must  certainly  turn 
in  my  favour  soon.  I  must  not  be  discour- 
aged. I  would  get  every  cent  back.  He 
knew  a  man  who  once  lost  sixty  thousand 
dollars  in  two  weeks,  that  won  it  all  back  in 
three  or  four  days,  and  sixty  thousand  more. 

In  this  way,  my  half-formed  resolution  ne- 
ver to  play  again,  was  scattered  to  the  wind. 

I  became  once  more  all  eagerness  ,to  meet 
Harryman,  and  win  back  from  him  my  tno-  & 

ney.     Filling  up  a  check  for  one  thousand 
dollars,  I  drew  that  sum  from  bank,  and  once 


;.        more  stood  at  the  gaming  table.   While  there 
I  lost  all  idea  of  time — and  forgot  everything 

1  i 


< 


46  THE    RUINED    GAMESTER. 


I  add  to  the  agony  of  her  mind  by  staying 
away  a  single  moment  longer?  At  last,  after 
wandering  about  for  nearly  an  hour,  thoughts 
of  my  wife  awoke  in  my  bosom  such  feelings 
of  tenderness,  that  I  could  not  prolong  fur 


else,  in  my  eager  devotion  to  play.  The 
struggle  was  long,  and  to  me  it  seemed  a 
doubtful  one — but  it  terminated  at  last,  and 
I  was  loser  by  just  the  amount  I  had  drawn 
out  of  bank. 

"  Will  you  cash  my  check  for  five  hundred 
dollars?"  I  asked  of  my  opponent,  perfectly 
infatuated. 

"  Certainly  I  will — or  for  five  thousand  if 
you  wish,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

The  check  was  drawn  and  the  money  hand- 
ed to  me.  Again  I  turned  eagerly  to  the 
faro-table.  But  I  will  not  descend  further 
to  particulars  in  regard  to  this  day's  trans- 
actions. Suffice  it  to  say,  that  I  passed  the 
whole  day,  and  until  midnight  in  this  contest 
with  Harryman,  neither  of  us  taking  a  par- 
ticle of  food.  When  I  left  him,  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  held  my  checks  for 
six  thousand  dollars. 

The  cold  air  of  a  bleak  night  in  January 
failed  to  cool  my  burning  forehead,  as  I  bared 
it  to  the  chilly  winds  that  swept  piercingly 
through  the  deserted  streets.  I  wandered 
along,  I  thought  not,  I  cared  not  whither.  I 
shrunk  from  the  idea  of  going  home.  How 
could  I  meet  my  wife?  And  yet,  how  could 


r 


THE    RUINED    GAMESTER.  47 

<! 

ther  my  absence.  I  determined  to  go  homo 
and  tefl  her  all,  and  get  her  counsel,  and 
the  strength  of  her  pure  mind,  to  restrain  me 
from  again  yielding  to  temptation. 

When  I  entered  her  chamber,  I  found  her 
upon  her  knees  by  the  bed-side,  with  her  face 
buried  in  a  pillow,  upon  which  her  clasped 
hands  were  resting.  I  started  at  the  sight, 
and  stood  for  some  moments  looking  at  her, 
as  if  suddenly  fixed  to  the  spot.  She  did  not 
stir,  and  seemed  altogether  unconscious  of 
my  presence.  My  blood  suddenly  became 
chilled  in  my  veins.  I  started  forward,  and 
bent  eagerly  over  her.  She  was  asleep,  and  _ 
her  breath  came  calmly.  But  her  counte- 
nance had  a  distressed  look,  her  eye-lids  were 
wet,  and  there  were  marks  of  tears  upon  her 
cheeks.  For  some  minutes  I  bent  over  her, 
irresolute.  I  had  not  yet  been  able  to  make 
up  my  mind  how  to  act,  when  she  shuddered, 
started,  and  raised  up  with  a  deep  sigh,  or 
rather  moaning  ejaculation.  Perceiving  me 
by  her  side,  as  she  stood  up,  she  exclaimed  : 

"Oh,  James!  Is  it  indeed  you?  I  have 
just  been  dreaming  that  I  saw  you  fall  from 
an  immense  precipice,  and  lie  bleeding  and 
mangled  at  its  rocky  base.  But  you  are  here, 
God  be  thanked !" 

As  she  said  this,  she  threw  herself  fondly 
upon  my  breast,  and  clung  with  her  arms 
around  my  neck,  trembling,  weeping,  and 
sobbing  like  an  infant.  Gradually  this  exu- 


48  THE    KL1NUD   GAMESTER. 

bcrance  of  feeling  subsided.  And  then  came 
a  state  of  silence,  coldness,  and  reserve,  that 
was  deeply  painful  and  embarrassing  to  both 
of  us. 

This  was  broken  by  my  freely  and  fully 
opening  to  her  the  whole  truth  in  regard  to  my 
three  days  of  mad  infatuation,  during  which 
I  had  lost  nearly  ten  thousand  dollars.  Poor 
Caroline!  The  relation  seemed  to  stun  her. 
She  looked  at  me  silently  and  strangely,  while 
her  face  became  paler  than  before.  And  no 
wonder!  The  husband  she  had  tenderly  loved, 
and  so  fully  confided  in,  had  been  guilty  of 
drunkenness  and  gaming,  those  two  dreadful 
vices,  from  which,  above  all  others,  the  heart 
of  a  woman  and  a  wife  must  turn  with  in- 
stinctive horror.  After  this  full  confession,  I 
made  a  voluntary  and  solemn  promise,  that 
I  would  never  again  enter  a  gambling-house, 
or  indulge  a  game  of  chance.  This  caused 
her  to  breathe  more  freely.  She  threw  her 
arms  again  around  my  neck,  buried  her  face 
in  my  bosom,  and  promised  to  forget,  as  far 
as  possible,  the  last  three  fearful  days  and 
nights.  My  heart  felt  lighter  after  this  than 
it  had  felt  since  the  accursed  moment  when 
I  first  breathed  the  polluted  air  of  a  gaming 
room.  I  retired  to  bed,  and  slept  soundly  for 
the  few  hours  of  darkness  that  remained 


TILE    RUINED    GAMESTER.  49 


CHAPTER  VI.  '  ss 

j 

AT  the  breakfast-table  on  the  next  morn- 
ing, Caroline  looked  serious,  but  not  troubled. 
I  could  eat  but  little,  for  with  the  morning 
had  come  bitter  reflections.  I  was  angry 
with  myself  for  my  blindness  and  folly.  The 
loss  of  some  nine  or  ten  thousand  dollars,  and 
in  such  a  way,  so  worried  my  mind  that  I 
was  unfitted  for  everything.  I  tried  to  enter 
once  more  upon  the  regular  course  of  my  bu- 
siness, but  in  vain.  I  took  no  interest  in  any- 
thing, but  brooded  continually  over  my  loss. 
I  soon  turned  from  my  account-books,  took 
my  hat,  and  went  over  to  Hall's,  where  I  call- 
ed for  a  glass  of  brandy  and  water.  After 
drinking  this  I  turned  to  go  out,  but  before  I 
had  reached  the  door,  my  friend  Fuller  was 
at  my  side,  with — 

"  Ah  !  good  morning,  James !  How  are  you 
to-day  ?" 

"  I  'm  devilish  bad,  I  thank  you,"  I  replied, 
somewhat  peevishly. 

"  Nonsense,  man !  What  has  come  over 
vou  ?" 

"  I  'm  a  cursed  fool !"  I  said,  in  reply,  with 
bitter  emphasis. 

"  Why,  what  in  the  world  has  broken  loose  1 

5  S 


50 


THE    RUINED    GAMESTER. 


You  are  certainly  in  a  strange  mood  for  a 
man  of  your  even  temper." 

"But  to  be  served  as  I  have  been,  would 
mar  the  temper  of  a  saint." 

"  You  speak  in  riddles." 

"  Do  I  ?  Well,  I  lost  seven  thousand  dol- 
lars yesterday  to  that  Harryman !  Isn't  that 
enough  to  spoil  a  man's  temper  1  Curse  him  1 
I  wish  he  had  been  in  the  middle  of  an  ice- 
berg before  I  saw  him  !" 

"  Seven  thousand  dollars  !   Impossible !" 

"  It  is  too  true,  Fuller  !  Too  true  !" 

"  Seven  thousand  dollars !  It  is  altogether 
incredible !  Really  I  cannot  understand  it. 
You  certainly  could  not  have  had  your  wits 
about  you." 

"  I  was  fully  alive  to  what  I  was  doing, 
and  played  with  the  greatest  possible  care. 
But  it  was  no  use.  I  could  win  three  or  four 
times  in  succession,  sometimes,  but  then  he 
would  carry  everything  before  him  after  that, 
until  he  had  won  all  back  again,  and  doubled 
on  me  his  losses." 

Fuller  looked  thoughtful  at  this,  and  re 
mained  for  some  time  silent.  At  length  he 
said,  half  aloud,  as  if  to  himself — 

"  But  it  will  never  do  in  the  world  to  let 
nim  off  with  that  money.  •  It  can  be  won 
back,  and  it  must." 

"  Not  by  me,"  I  replied.  "  I  'm  done.  Let 
what  is  gone  sink  in  the  ocean.  It  is  enough 
to  throw  awa)'." 


|  THE   RUINED   GAMESTER  51 

;>  > 

"No  —  no  —  no!  That  will  never  do!" 
quickly  returned  my  friend,  with  concern 
both  in  his  voice  and  countenance.  "  Har- 
<;  ryman  must  not  get  off  with  that  booty.  It 
must  be  gotten  back.  Try  him  once  more, 
and  1  can  put  you  in  the  way  of  recovering 
every  cent." 

"  How  ?"  I  eagerly  asked. 

"  You  won  frequently  ?" 

"  O  yes !  Often." 

"  Very  well.  Now  if  you  will  adopt  the 
plan  I  suggest,  you  can  easily  enough  get 
your  own  out  of  him." 

"  Name  your  plan,"  I  said. 

"  You  understand  what  is  meant  by  cock- 
ing a  card  ?" 

"  No,  I  do  not,"  I  replied. 

"  Indeed  !  Well,  let  me  explain  it  to  you. 
Suppose  you  have  ventured  fifty  dollars,  and 
win ;  you  bend  up  or  « cock*  one  corner  of 
your  card,  which  means  that  you  bet  both 
your  stake  and  your  winnings,  or  one  hun- 
dred dollars.  If  now,  you  win  a  second  time, 
the  banker  loses  three  times  the  amount  of 
your  stakes,  or  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars. 
Still  successful,  you  '  cock'  another  corner  of 
your  card,  and  venture  stake  and  winnings 
again.  Another  event  in  your  favour  will 
entitle  you  to  receive  seven  times  the  amount 
of  your  stake.  Another  '  cock*  proving  for- 


I  Wl         J    VSU.1        O  CU  I\V^  •  AM.*A"S  L.  I  XVA  VVr\*>l&,  ISA  \J  V    11J£1         I'  /I  — 

tunate,  you  are  entitled  to  receive  fifteen 

.,  .  _. 


timei  the  amount  of  your  stake.     The  next 


52  THE    RUINED   GAMESTER. 

fortunate  card  gives  thirty-one  times  the 
amount  of  the  stake,  and  the  next,  which  is 
about  as  far  as  the  boldest  venture,  gives 
sixty-two  times  the  amount  of  the  stake. 
This,  you  see,  would,  in  the  case  of  the  stake 
being  fifty  dollars,  be  three  thousand  one  hun- 
dred dollars !" 

"  But  suppose  I  lost  ?"  was  my  a. most 
breathless  inquiry. 

"  You  forfeit  only  your  stake !"  was  the 
encouraging  reply. 

"  Only  my  stake  !  Are  you  sure  ?"  I  cried 
eagerly. 

"  O  certainly  !  I  am  sure.  And  there,  let 
me  tell  you,  lies  your  certain  chance  of  suc- 
cess. Suppose  you  lost  a  dozen  times  in  such 
a  play,  once  fortunate,  and  you  get  all  back 
again  and  twenty-five  hundred  dollars  to 
boot.  And  then,  at  each  new  deal  of  the 
cards,  double  your  stakes.  Fifty  for  the  first 
run,  one  hundred  for  the  next,  and  so  on.  Do 
this,  and  you  will  soon  be  even  again,  and 
can  break  his  bank  into  the  bargain." 

I  pondered  over  this  suggestion  for  some 
time.  It  presented  a  tempting  scheme.  Still 
I  was  undetermined. 

"It  is  your  only  chance,"  my  friend  said, 
breaking  in  upon  my  state  of  silent  irresolu- 
tion. 

"  But  suppose  it  fails,"  I  urged.  "  Think 
of  that !  No !  no !  I  've  suffered  enough  al- 
ready. Better  let  the  ten  thousand  go." 

L  ! 


THE   RUINED   GAMESTER.  53 

"  Well.  Just  as  you  think  best  "  Fuller 
slid,  tossing  his  head  somewhat  carelessly. 
'•  You  know  best,  perhaps.  But  if  it  were 
me,  I  'd  make  one  bold  swoop,  and  recover 
the  whole.  Nothing  risk,  nothing  gain,  you 
know." 

"  True.  But,  then,  it  would  be  risking  too 
much  to  bet  nearly  all  I  'm  worth,  as  I  might 
be  induced  to  do,  were  I  to  lose  continually 
in  the  rising  scale  of  stakes." 

"  No  danger  of  that.  But  perhaps  I  am 
saying  too  much, — though  you  must  give  me 
credit  for  the  best  intentions.  I  feel  for  you, 
deeply,  and  cannot  bear  the  thought  of  your 
losing  so  much  money,  especially  as  you  were 
first  induced  by  me  to  engage  in  the  business. 
But  think  over  my  proposition.  Perhaps  you 
may  see  it  in  a  more  favourable  light." 

We  then  separated,  and  I  returned  to  my 
store,  and  tried  to  take  up  the  regular  order 
of  my  business  and  pursue  it,  but  in  vain. 
All  my  thoughts  flowed  into  a  single  channel. 
I  took  not  the  slightest  interest  in  my  ordi- 
nary employment.  The  daily  profits  of  trade 
were  nothing  compared  to  the  large  sum  1 
had  lost,  and  which  I  was  eager  to  get  back- 
again.  Fuller's  scheme  looked  more  and 
more  plausible,  the  longer  I  dwelt  upon  it.  I 
had  won  many  times  in  succession  every  time 
I  had  played  with  Harryman,  and  was  often 
successful,  even  to  the  very  card  preceding 
that  which  finally  terminated  the  contest. 


r  ~* 

54  THE    RUIXED    GAMESTER. 

This  looked  temptingly  encouraging.  If  I  could 
win  twice  in  succession  after  the  stakes  had 
risen  to,  say  three  or  four  hundred  dollars, 
even  on  the  second  or  third  "  cock,"  I  would 
be  all  right  again. 

During  the  afternoon  Fuller  came  in  again 
I  told  him  that  I  had  been  thinking  over  his 
plan  ever  since  I  had  seen  him,  and  I  was 
half-inclined  to  believe  that  it  would  do. 

"  I  know  it  will  do,"  was  his  confident  re- 
ply. "  I  've  heard  of  three  or  four  men  in 
my  time  who  saved  themselves  just  in  that 
way.  Your  regular  professional  characters 
never  like  to  see  the  game  running  in  that 
way.  But  they  cannot  object." 

"  But  you  don't  call  Harryman  a  regular 
professional  character,  do  you  ?"  I  asked, 
looking  Fuller  steadily  in  the  face ;  for  a  dim 
light  had  glanced  across  my  mind. 

"  He  a  professional  character — ha !  ha  !"' 
was  the  half-laughing,  half-contemptuous  re- 
ply. "  He 's  good  game  for  them ;  that 's 
about  the  weight  of  his  pretensions.  A  reg- 
ular blackleg  likes  no  better  sport  than  to 
get  a  man  like  him  into  his  hands.  The  way 
nj  makes  the  wool  fly  is  curious.  But  come! 
I  et  us  go  round  to  Hall's.  I  feel  as  dry  as 
a  fish." 

To  Hall's  we  went,  and  drank  each  a  glass 
of  whiskey  punch.  Then  we  set  down  to- 
gether, and  once  more  went  over  the  all-ab- 
sorbing subject  of  my  disastrous  gaming  ope- 


THE    RUINED    GAMESTER.  55 

<  j 

rations.  Fuller  was  confident  that  if  I  would 
pursue  the  course  suggested  by  him,  I  would 
be  certain  to  win  back  my  money.  I  relt 
half-inclined  to  throw  all  upon  that  result; 
but  still  hesitated.  The  fact  that  I  had  no 
money  out  of  bank  decided  the  matter,  at 
least  for  that  day.  After  I  had  mentioned 
this,  Fuller  seemed  less  interested,  and  soon 
after  made  a  movement  to  go.  I  left  the  tav- 
ern with  him.  We  walked  some  distance  |; 
together  and  then  separated,  I  returning 
home. 

That  evening  I  spent  with  my  family.  But 
I  was  far  from  being  the  cheerful  companion 
I  had  once  been.  My  mind  brooded,  contin- 
ually over  my  losses,  and  pondered  with  too 
lively  an  interest  on  the  plan  advanced  by 
Fuller.  Once  or  twice  I  thought  of  my 
pledge  to  Caroline  to  abandon  immediately 
and  for  ever,  this  hazardous  business,  and  let 
what  had  been  lost  go.  But,  it  did  not  have 
much  effect  upon  me,  for  the  reason,  that  the 
desire  to  get  back  my  property,  stimulated 
as  it  was  by  the  presentation  of  a  plausible 
scheme,  kept  me  from  looking  at  my  promise 
steadily,  and  weighing  its  binding  force.  For 
a  greater  part  of  that  night  I  lay  awake, 
thinking  over  this  too  engrossing  subject. 
When  morning  came,  I  was  as  little  fitted  as 
on  the  day  previous  to  attend  to  business. 
Soon  after  breakfast  I  went  around  to  Hall's 
tavern,  more  with  the  unacknowledged  hope 


. 

56  THE   RUINED    GAMESTER. 

I1  rj 

of  mee  .ing  Fuller,  than  to  get.  anything  to 
drink.  I  found  him  there,  and  we  again  went 
over  the  whole  matter.  He  took  but  one  view 
of  it,  and  that  was  the  one  he  had  already 
presented.  I  combated  this  in  various  ways, 
but  he  steadily  persisted  in  saying,  that  if  I 
would  pursue  the  course  he  had  pointed  out 
the  result  must  be  favourable.  He  seemed 
warm  on  this  point,  and  urged  it  with  fervour 
— at  the  same  time  giving  it  aj  his  reason  for 
so  doing,  that  having  been  the  original  cause 
of  my  difficulties,  he  was  bound,  as  a  friend, 
to  endeavour  to  extricate  me  from  them. 

Finally  this  counsel  prevailed.  After  din- 
ner I  went  to  the  faro-table  with  ten  thou- 
sand dollars  in  my  pocket,  besides  half-a- 
dozen  blank  checks,  in  case  more  should  be 
needed. 

I  found  several  persons  engaged  in  play- 
ing, and  was  invited  to  take  a  place  with 
them.  I,  at  first,  declined,  but  as  none  of 
them  seemed  disposed  to  leave  the  table,  and 
I  was  again  invited  by  Harryman,  I  went 
forward  and  laid  a  stake  of  fifty  dollars. 
Very  soon  I  won.  As  Fuller  had  proposed, 
I  made  what  is  called  a  parolet,  that  is,  bent 
up  a  corner  of  my  card,  or  in  flash  phrase, 
"cocked  it,"  to  signify  that  I  risked  now  my 
gains  and  my  stake.  I  won  again,  and,  as 
before,  bet  my  winnings  and  my  stake.  Thi* 
continued  until  I  had  made  a  fourth  "cock." 
As  card  after  card  now  came  out  of  Harry 


. 


ELK  RUINED   GAMESTER.  57 

man's  silver  box,  and  their  names  were  call- 
ed, my  heart  almost  ceased  to  beat.  Here  I 
intended  to  stop,  if  I  won,  and  secure  thirty- 
one  times  the  amount  of  my  stake.  But  this 
was  not  to  be.  In  a  little  while  all  my  gains, 
and  my  stake  into  the  bargain,  went  over  to 
the  bank. 

One  hundred  dollars  next  was  laid  upon 
the  table.  They  went  with  the  rest.  I  felt 
strangely  desperate.  T'e  partial  success  of 
my  first  parolet  excited  me  more  than  I  had 
ever  before  been  excited.  I  was  sure  that 
*^ey  must  finally  turn  up  in  my  favour.  If 
1  could  carry  but  a  single  one  of  these  des- 
perate plays  through,  it  would  give  me  c. 
great  advantage.  Two  hundred  dollars  were 
staked.  I  won  — "  cocked"  my  card,  and 
waited  with  eager  interest.  I  won  again,  and 
so  on  until  the  third  parolet,  when  away  went 
the  golden  harvest  I  was  about  to  gather  in ! 
Resolutely  did  I  persevere  in  doubling  my 
stake.  Four  hundred  dollars,  eight  hundred 
dollars,  sixteen  hundred  dollars,  and  so  on, 
rising,  each  time  making  parolets,  did  1  per- 
severe, growing  more  desperate  at  each  sue 
cessive  defeat.  Of  the  paix-parolet,  or  the 
doubling  down  of  a  card  and  risking  the  win- 
nings, only,  Fuller  had  not  told  me.  The 
consequence  was,  that  in  every  defeat  I  lost 
my  stakes.  And  as  I  continued  to  double 
each  time,  my  losses  soon  became  most  disas 
trous.  At  last,  I  laid  my  check  upon  the  ts 


58  THE    RJINED    GAMESTER 

ble  for  twenty-six  thousand  dollars,  which 
fully  covered  the  entire  balance  of  n  v  pro- 
perty not  swallowed  up  in  this  whirlpool.  I 
had  been  greatly  excited — now  I  was  calm — 
but  the  calmness  was  like  that  of  the  ocean's 
surface  when  its  billows  are  smoothed  down 
by  the  weight  of  the  superincumbent  tem- 
pest. In  making  the  stake,  I  resolved,  if  I 
should  win,  to  make  a  parolet.  If  again  suc- 
cessful to  go  no  further,  as  that  would  give 
me  three  times  the  amount  of  my  slake,  or 
seventy-eight  thousand  dollars,  nearly  dou- 
ble what  I  had  lost.  All  was  now  breathless 
interest.  No  one  else  pretended  to  bet.  I 
felt  as  if  I  was  existing  in  the  centre  of  a 
solid  crystal.  I  saw  all  around  me  clear  and 
distinct,  but  was  myself  immovable.  Har- 
ryman  took  the  cards  from  his  Ijox  slowly, 
pausing  long,  and  looking  down  into  it  intent- 
ly, between  each  movement  of  his  hand. 
Nearly  the  whole  pack  had  been  dealt  rut. 
when  the  card  came  up  that  decided  mv  fc^e 
It  was  against  me  I 


THE    ivci^r-JJ       Am          trt 


CHAPTER  VH. 

How  I  got  away  from  the  room  I  know 
not.  It  was  night.  But  I  knew  not  the  hour. 
Whither  should  I  go?  Home?  No!  I  dared 
not  go  there !  How  could  I  meet  my  injured 
wife,  or  look  upon  my  beggared  children  ?  In 
this  state  of  mind  I  entered  a  refectory,  and, 
calling  for  a  glass  of  brandy,  retired  into  a 
box  where  it  was  sent  to  me.  I  had  been 
seated  there  without  a  light  for  about  ten 
minutes,  when  two  men  entered  a  box  adjoin- 
ing. They  conversed  for  some  time  in  a  low 
tone,  but  grew  more  earnest,  so  that  I  over- 
heard the  following  conversation — 

"  It  is  no  use  for  you  to  offer  me  the  paltry 
sum  of  two  hundred  dollars,  Harryman.  I 
want  the  fourth  of  all  you  won  from  him." 

I  recognised  the  voice  at  once.  It  was  that 
of  my  pretended  friend,  Fuller. 

"  You  are  not  entitled  to  the  fourth  of  any 
amount  I  won  from  him,  except  that  obtained 
on  the  night  you  brought  him  in." 

"  He  never  came  here  once  that, I  did  not 
prompt  him.  I  put  it  into  his  head  to  play 
parolets  to-day,  by  which  you  were  enabled 
to  fleece  him  entirely.  He  is  my  game,  and 
I  must  and  will  have  my  share." 

i „ ! 


30  THE    RUINED    GAMES'! fa&. 

S 

"  It  you  can  get  it,"  I  could  hear  the  gam- 
ier say  between  his  teeth. 

"  You  are  an  infernal,  cheating  scoundrel !" 
rt-as  the  low  fierce  reply  of  Fuller. 

Instantly  there  ensued  a  scuffle,  and  all  was 
alarm  and  confusion.  I  sprang  from  my  box, 
while  the  inmates  of  the  refectory  rushed 
from  all  parts  to  the  scene  of  action.  But 
before  any  one  could  separate  them,  a  pistol- 
shot  rang  through  the  room.  All  was  still 
for  a  moment.  Then  there  was  a  deep  groan, 
and  one  of  the  combatants  fell  heavily  to  the 
floor.  It  was  the  gambler !  In  the  confusion 
that  followed  I  retired  from  the  place  unno- 
ticed, and  went  directly  home.  It  was  near- 
ly twelve  o'clock,  and  I  had  not  been  home 
since  dinner  time.  I  dreaded  to  meet  my 
wife.  What  could  I  say  to  her?  Two  days 


gared  my  family ! 

As  silently  as  possible  I  entered  my  house. 
All  was  hushed.  I  went  softly  up  to  my 
chamber,  listening  at  every  step  for  some 
sound,  but  nothing,  except  the  monotonous 
ticking  of  the  clock,  met  my  ear.  The  door 
of  my  chamber  stood  ajar.  I  opened  it  qui- 
etly, and  went  in.  My  youngest  child  lay 
asleep  in  its  crib,  and  two  others  slept  sound- 
;y  upon  their  Jmie  'oca.  2u;  my  wife  was 


had  not  elapsed  since  my  solemn  promise  to         < 
her  never  again  to  risk  a  dollar  at  the  gam- 
ing table,  and  within  thai  time  I  had  lost  all 
that  I  was  worth  !  Since  that  time  I  had  beg- 


THE    RCINED   GAMESTER.  61 

not  there !  My  heart  bounded  in  sudden 
alarm  as  I  took  up  the  light  hastily  and  pass- 
ed into  the  adjoining  chamber.  It  was  ten- 
antless. 

"  Caroline !"  I  called  at  the  landing  of  the 
stairs.  But  the  echo  of  my  voice,  sounding 
along  the  passages,  was  all  the  reply  I  ob- 
tained. Hurriedly  then  I  descended  to  the 
parlours,  where  all  was  dark  and  still.  Here 
I  found  my  wife  lying  upon  a  sofa,  with  ar 
arm  hanging  upon  the  floor,  and  her  head 
thrown  far  over  upon  one  shoulder,  as  if  she 
had  suddenly  sunk  down  and  become  instant- 
ly helpless.  Her  face  was  deadly  pale,  and 
her  skin  cold.  I  lifted  her  in  my  arms  and 
carried  her  up  into  our  chamber  and  laid  her 
upon  the  bed.  But  she  gave  no  sign  of  life. 
Indeed,  so  far  as  I  was  able  to  judge,  the 
spirit  had  taken  its  everlasting  departure  from 
Its  beautiful  clayey  tenement.  I  chafed  her 
temples,  and  used  all  the  restoratives  I  could 
think  of,  but  to  no  purpose.  She  still  lay  pale 
and  insensible  before  me. 

Suddenly  I  shuddered,  and  the  cold,  clam- 
my sweat  oozed  from  every  relaxed  pore  of 
my  body,  as  memory  called  up  vividly  the 
death-bed  scene  of  my  mother.  My  mother, 
whom  I  had  suffered  to  die,  while  I  indulged 
my  early  passion  for  gaming.  And  now,  in 
pursuit  of  the  same  wild  excitement,  I  had  a 
second  time  been  ruined  in  worldly  goods, 
and  a  second  time  had  murdered  her  whom, 

!      •          J 


62  THE    RUINED    GAMESTER. 

s 

of  all  others,  I  loved  most  tenderly  !  Horror- 
stricken,  I  rushed  from  the  house,  and  aroused 
the  nearest  physician,  He  came  to  my  aid 
immediately.  One  more  hour  of  anxious  sus- 
pense passed,  and  lo  !  there  were  signs  of  re- 
turning life.  I  noted  for  a  moment  the  con 
vulsive  twitch  of  the  muscles  of  the  face- 
felt  her  slowly  reviving  pulse,  and  then,  with 
the  tears  gushing  from  my  eyes,  went  quickly 
into  the  adjoining  chamber,  and  falling  upon 
roy  knees,  besought  earnestly  my  Maker  to 
spare  me  my  wife  yet  a  little  longer,  and  try 
me,  whether  I  would  not  now  be  true  to  my 
duty  as  a  husband,  a  father,  and  citizen. 

When  I  returned  to  the  bed-side  the  phy- 
sician gave  me  hope.  How  eagerly  did  I 
cling  to  it,  and  cherish  it  as  an  answer  to  my 
pledge  and  my  prayer!  By  daylight  she  had 
rallied  a  good  deal,  though  sne  still  remained 
unconscious,  and  continued  so  throughout  the 
day. 

A  feeling  of  security  in  regard  to  my  wife, 
allowed  me  time  to  give  some  earnest  thought 
to  my  worldly  condition.  The  conversation 
I  had  heard  at  the  refectory,  on  the  night  be- 
fore, revealed  to  me  a  startling  secret.  Ful- 
ler, my  friend  Fuller,  had  basely  betrayed 
me.  I  could  scarcely  believe  my  own  senses. 
He  a  mere  "  stool  pigeon  !"  It  seemed  im- 
possible. And  yet  it  was  even  so.  He  had 
allured  me  to  the  gaming  table,  after  having 
first  aided  in  getting  me  intoxicated,  that  I 


THfi    RUINED       A          TEH  f»3 

might  be  robbed  of  my  fortune,  and  he  be- 
come a  sharer  in  the  booty.  While  turning 
this  matter  over  in  my  mind,  a  neighbour 
dropped  in  and  gave  me  a  history  of  the  scene 


of  violence  I  had  myself  witnessed  on  the 
preceding  evening,  adding,  that  Harryman, 
"  the  most  desperate  gambler  in  the  country," 
had  since  died.  Instantly  a  gleam  of  light 
broke  into  my  mind.  I  turned  at  once  to  my 
desk — examined  my  bank  account,  and  found 
that  I  had  just  twenty  thousand  dollars  in 
cash.  I  drew  a  check  for  this,  with  which  I 
was  at  the  counter  of  the  bank  just  as  the 
clock  struck  nine.  I  received  the  whole,  and 
went  away  with  a  lighter  heart.  Twenty 
thousand  dollars  in  cash  I  had  sunk  in  my 
gaming  mania.  The  rest  of  my  property  I 
still  held  securely,  and  no  power  but  the  law 
could  wrest  it  from  me.  And  the  law  of  my 
State,  I  knew,  recognised  no  gambling  debt. 
Harryman  was  dead,  and  Fuller  arrested  for 
nis  murder.  If  the  heirs  of  the  former  en- 
tered suit  upon  my  checks,  I  would  throw 
the  proof  of  value  received  upon  them.  I 
felt  that  I  could  make  a  clear  case. 

But,  happily,  this  issue  never  came.  I  was 
left  in  the  quiet  enjoyment  of  the  remainder 
of  my  fortune.  Fuller  is  still  expiating  the 
crime  of  manslaughter  in  the  State's  prison. 

As  for  my  wife,  she  was  restored  to  con- 
sciousness during  the  ensuing  night.  Her 
recognition  of  me  led  to  a  most  touchingly 


64  THE    RUINED    GAMESTER. 


painful  interview.  But  I  ventured  upon  no 
further  explanations  of  my  conduct  —  and 
made  no  further  promises.  I  felt  that  these 
would  be  but  a  mockery  to  her  state.  Time 
could  only  give  her  confidence  in  me.  She 
must  now  judge  from  my  actions  and  not  my 
words. 

And  time  has  brought  back  the  smile  to 
her  lip,  the  light  to  her  sweet  face,  the  joy 
and  confidence  to  her  heart.  As  for  myself, 
I  have  twice  been  sorely  tempted,  and,  fall- 
ing in  temptation,  been  most  grievously  pun- 
ished— and  saved  as  by  fir?.  But  I  feel  now 
that  I  stand  upon  higher  ground.  When  I 
went  to  the  faro-table  with  Fuller,  I  did  not 
think  it  an  evil  to  win  my  neighbour's  money 
from  him,  for  all  my  professions  to  the  con- 
trary. All  was  fair;  and  the  winner  the 
best  man.  I  see  it  differently  now.  I  would 
as  soon  think  of  stealing  a  man's  money,  as 
winning  it  from  him.  From  henceforth  I  am 
secure  from  a  gamester's  temptations ;  or,  if 
latent  cupidities  should  indeed  stir  within  me 
the  memory  of  two  eras  in  my  life  will  come 
up  and  save  me. 


TUB    BMI>. 


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TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A  BAR-ROOM, 


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|>  In  the  "  Ten  Nights  in  a  Bar-Room,"  some  of  the  consequences  of  tavern-  f 
[|  keeping,  the  "sowing  of  the  wind"  and  "reaping  the  whirlwind,"  are  "J 
S  followed  by  a  "  fearful  consummation,"  and  the  "  closing  scene,"  present-  !' 
)  Ing  pictures  of  fearful,  thrilling  interest. — Am.  Courier. 

t  There  is  no  exaggeration  in  these  pages — they  seem  to  have  been  filled  c" 
/  up  by  actual  observation. — Philadelphia  Sun. 

[I  We  have  read  it  with  the  most  intense  interest,  and  commend  it  as  a  work  [' 
,>  calculated  to  do  an  immense  amount  of  good. — Lancaster  Express.  S 

\  We  wish  that  all  lovers  of  bar-rooms  and  rum  would  read  the  book.  It  J> 
J>  will  pay  them  richly  to  do  so. — N.  Y.  Northern  Blade. 

|         It  is  sufficient  commendation  of  this  little  volume  to  say  that  it  is  from        |j 

J      tte  graphic  pen  of  T.  S.  Arthur,  whose  works  will  be  read  and  re-read         < 

long  after  he  has  passed  away.     He  is  as  true  to  nature,  as  far  as  be  at-        / 

tempts  to  explore  it,  as  Shakspeare  himself;  and  his  works,  consequently          I 

hmvc  an  immense  popularity. — Sew  tlaoen  Palladium. 


'••Nd-U-^O 


J.   W.   BRADLETS   LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS. 



AR  T  H  ITU'S 

|  SKETCHES  OF  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER  j 

[;       A  a  octavo  volume  of  over  400  pages,  beautifully  illus- 
trated,  and  bound  in   the    best   English  muslin,  gilt    J 
back,  $2.00. 

NOTICES    OF    THE   PRESS. 

The  present  volume,  containing  more  than  four  hundred  finely-printed     !| 
S         octavo  pVges,  is  illustrated  by  spleudid  engravings,  and  made  particularly 
f        valuable  to  those  who  like  to  "see  the  face  of  him  they  talk  withal,"  by     \ 
<",        a  correct  likeness  of  the  author,  finely  engraved  on  steel. — Weal's  Gazette.     \ 

In  the  princely  mansions  of  the  Atlantic  merchants,  and  in  the  rude  log  • 
S  cabins  of  the  backwoodsmen,  the  name  of  Arthur  is  equally  known  and  ) 
J>  cherished  as  the  friend  of  virtue. — Graham's  Magazine. 

We  would  not  exchange  the  copy  of  these  sketches,  with  its  story  of  { 
S  "The  Methodist  Preacher,"  for  anyone  of  the  gilt-edged  and  embossed  !> 
<)  Annuals  which  we  have  yet  seen. — Lady's  National  Magazine. 

The  first  story  in  the  volume,  entitled  "The  Methodist  Preacher;  or,  > 
cj  Lights  and  Shadows  in  the  Life  of  an  Itinerant,"  is  alone  worth  the  price  ', 
/  of  the  work. — Evening  BiMetin. 

It  is  emphatically  a  splendid  work. — Middletown  Whig. 

Its  worth  and  cheapness  should  place  it  in  every  persons  hands  who  do-      > 
i|         sire  to  read  an  interesting  book. — Odd  Fellow,  Soonsboro'. 
S  "The  Methodise  Preacher,"  "  Seed -Time  and  Harvest,"  "Dyed  in  the     J> 

!|        Wool,"  are  full  of  truth  as  well  as  instruction,  and  anyone  of  them  in     <J 
worth  the  whole  price  of  the  volume. — Lowell  Day-Star,  Rev.  D.  C.  Eddy,     } 
>        Editor. 

There  is  a  fascination  about  these  sketches  which  so  powerfully  interests  ;' 
]  the  reader,  that  few  who  commence  one  of  them  will  part  with  it  till  it  ia  ' 
J  concluded  ;  and  they  will  bear  reading  repeatedly. — Norfolk  and  Port*-  'r 
}  mouth  Herald. 

Those  who  have  not  perused  these  model  stories  have  a  rich  feast  ir  ' 
5  waiting,  and  we  shall  be  happy  if  we  cau  be  instrumental  iu  pointing  !' 
<!  them  to  it. — family  Visitor,  Madison,  Oeo. 

No  library  for  family  reading  should  be  considered  complete  without  1' 
this  volume,  which  is  aa  lively  and  entertaining  in  its  character  as  it  U  ii 
Mlutary  in  its  influence. — JV.  Y.  Tribune.  Jj 

The  work  is  beautifully  illustrated.     Those  who  are  at  all  acquainted     < 

it  Ii  Arthur's  writings  need  hardly  be  told  that  the  present  work  is  a  prize  \> 
to  whoever  possesses  it. — ff.  Y.  Sun. 

We  know  no  better  book  for  the  table  of  any  family,  whether  regarded  ;. 
(  tor  its  neat  exterior  or  valuable  contents. — Vox  PopnLi,  Lowell. 

The  name  of  the  author  is  in  itself  a  sufficient  recommendation  of  the  < 
work. — Lawrence  Sentinel. 

J.  W.  BRADLEY,  Publisher, 

48  N.  Fourth  street,  Philadelphia.    '< 


J.  W.  BBADLEY'S   LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS. 

DR.  LIVINGSTONE'S 

|  TRAVELS  AND  RESEARCHES 

OP  SIXTEEN  YEARS  IN  THE 
OF    SOTJXH 


This  is  a  work  of  thrilling  adventures  and  hair-breadth  escapes  amoag  , 

*?  savage  beasts  and  more  Ravage  men.    Dr.  Livingstone  was  alone  and  nn-  ? 

\,  aided  by  any  white  man,  traveling  with  African  attendants,  among  different  !! 

>  tribes  and  nations,  all  strange  to  him,  and  many  of  them  hostile,  and  alto-  lj 

\  gether  forming  the  most  astonishing  book  of  travels  <he  world  has  ever  seen.  Ij 

j!  All  our  Agents  acknowledge  it  is  the  most  salable  book  published.    The  lj 

'\  most  liberal  commission  made  to  Agents,  in  small  or  large  quantities.  |> 

t  Jt£g~  Copies  sent  by  Mail,  free,  on  receipt  of  the  price,  $1.25.  <[ 

NOTICES    OP    THE    PRESS  £ 

I1  It  abounds  In  descriptions  of  strange  and  wonderful  scenes,  among  a  *,' 

']  people  and  in  a  country  entirely  new  to  the  civilized  world  ;  and  altogether  S 

f  we  regard  it  as  one  of  the  most  interesting  books  issued  within  the  past  ? 

^  year. — Daily  Democrat,  Patterson,  New  Jersey. 

;.  The  subjects  treated  of  are  new  and  strange,  and  take  a  deep  hold  upon  i| 

•J  popular  feeling.    The  book  is  having  a  great  run,  and  will  be  read  by  ', 

S  every  reading  man,  woman  and  child,  in  this  as  well  as  other  lands.—  J< 

rj  Aahtabula  (Ohio)  Telegraph. 

S  Those  of  onr  readers  who  would  have  a  delightful  book  for  reading  at  > 

cj  any  hour,  will  not  be  disappointed  in  this  work. —  United  States  Journal.  <, 

Ji  This  interesting  work  should  be  in  the  hands  of  every  one.     Its  inter-  p 

f  esting  pages  of  adventures  are  full  of  instruction  and  amusement. — Au-  \ 

']  burn  American.  'f 

,'  With  truth  we  can  say,  that  seldom  is  presented  to  the  reading  public  a  ?, 

4  work  containing  such  a  vast  amount  of  solid  instruction  as  the  one  in  S 

1?  question.    The  volume  is  handsomely  illustrated,  and  presents  that  uniqwt  ? 

jj  appearance  of  exterior  for  which  Mr.  Bradley's  publications  are  noted.-  ', 

<j  Family  Magazine.  <J 

•5  4^-  CAUTION. — The  attention  of  the  Publisher  has  been  called  to  spn-  (S 

?  riouM  editions  of  this  work,  put  forth  as  "  Narratives  of  Dr.  Livingstone's  •', 

jj  Travels  in  Africa."  Ours  is  the  only  cheap  American  edition  of  this  great  <! 

\  work  published,  and  contains  all  the  important  matter  of  the  English  •! 

;  edition,  which  is  sold  at  six  dollars. 


J.  W.  BRADLEY,  Publisher, 


48  N  Fourth  street,  Philadelphia, 


J.  W.  BKADLEY'S   LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS. 
THE    MASTER-SPIRIT    OF    THE    AGE. 

000 

THE  PUBLIC  AND  PRIVATE  HISTORY 

OF 

NAPOLEON  THE    THIRD 


I  Biographical    Notices    of  his    most   Distinguished 

Ministers,  Generals,  and  Favorites. 


BY  SAMUEL  M,  SMUCKER,  A,M, 

Reign  of  Catharine  II.,"  "  Nicholas  L,  '. 
'  Lite  of  Alexander  Hamilton,"  etc.,  etc. 


Author  of  "  Court  and  Reign  of  Catharine  II.,"  "Nicholas  I.,  Emperor  of  Russia," 

\ 


This  Interesting  and  valuable  work  Is  embellished  with  splendid  Steel  'i 
Jj        Plates,  done  by  Mr.  Sartain  in  his  best  style,  including 

L       The  Emperor,  The  Empress,  Queen  Hortense,  and  the  £ 

;,                                         Countess  Castiglione.  tj 

The  work  contains  over  400  pages  of  closely-printed  matter,  and  has  S 

!'        been  prepared  with  much  care  from  authentic  sources,  and  furnishes  a  !-' 

f        large  amount  of  information  in  reference  to  the  Emperor  of  the  French,  jj 

C                   HIS    COURT,    AND    FRANCE    UNDER   THE  's 

;.                                                  SECOND    EMPIRE,  <\ 

?        which  is  entirely  new  to  American  readers.     This  work  is  the  only  one,  ^ 
\        either  in  English  or  French,  which  boldly  and  accurately  describes 

The  Heal  Character,  The  Private  Morals,  The  Public  Policy 
of  Napoleon  the  Third. 

NOTICES    OP    THE   PHESS.  '. 

This  is  a  very  valuable  contribution  to  the  literature  of  the  present  time  > 

S         An  extraordinary  amount  of  information  is  given  in  the  present  volume.  <J 

t        Like  all  the  other  works  of  the  graceful  and  fluent  author,  it  must  com  S 
S        maud  a  very  large  popularity. — Philad'a  Mercury. 

It  is  the  most  complete  biography  of  the  French  Emperor  yet  published,  S 
and  brings  events  down  to  the  present  time. — Baltimore  Republican. 

This  book  is  well  written,  printed  on  good  paper,  is  neatly  bound,  good  ' 
]>        iiie,  and  sold  cheap. —  Valley  Spirit,  Clianibersburg. 

This  work  does  full  and  ample  justice  to  the  subject.     It  is  a  production  f 

ff        of  superior  ability.     Mr.  Smucker  is  an  accomplished  writer.    He  is  learned  f 

\        and  accurate  in  his  researches,  and  his  style  is  polished  and  scholarlike,  so  jj 

that  he  produces  works  of  sterli  ng  value  and  permanent  interest. — Phil.  Dis.  '? 

Copies  sent  by  mail  on  receipt  of  the  price,  $1.25.  ^ 
J.  W.  BRADLEY,  Publisher, 

48  N.  Fourth  street,  Philadelphia  \ 


J.   W.   BRADLEY'S   LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS. 

r;     _  .., 

i  LIFE    AND    EXPLORATIONS     | 

«T 

DR.  E.  K.  KANE, 

I>  AND  OTHER  DISTINGUISHES 

AMERICAN   EXPLORERS, 


QMUMM 

LEDYARD,  WILKES,  PEREY,  etc.,  etc. 


S       JONTAINING   NARRATIVES  OP   THEIR   RESEARCHES  AND  ADYEN-          I> 
'<;        /URES  IN  REMOTE  AND  INTERESTING  PORTIONS  OF  THE  GLOBE.  ^ 

BY  SAMUEL  M,  SMUCKER,  A,M, 

,•      Amthor  of  "  Court  and  Reign  of  Catharine  II.,"  "Emperor  Nicholas  I.,"  "Lift  of  S 

Alexander  Hamilton,"   "Arctic  Exploration!  and  Discoreries,"   "Memoir  of 
Thoma*  Jefferson,"    "  Memorable  Scene*  in  French  Hiitorj,"  etc. 

/    With  a  fine  Mezzotint  Portrait  of  Dr.  Kane,  in  his  Arctic  Costume.        ff 


J>  This  work  brings  within  the  reach  of  all  the  admirers  of  oar  great  j> 

S  Explorers  (of  whom  Dr.  KANE,  although  last,  is  not  least,)  the  most  <J 

j,  important  matter  contained  in  books  costing  ten  times  the  amount.  ? 

c|  AGENTS  and  CANVASSERS  by  taking  this  book,  with  our  new  work  [ 

^  of  DR.  LIVINGSTONE'S  EXPLORATIONS  IN  AFRICA,  can  make  more  ' 

^  money  in  the  same  time  than  on  any  other  books  now  published.  ', 

lt  Retail  price,  $1.00.     Specimen  copies  sent  by  mail  on  receipt  of  the  <} 

{  price. 

NOTICES   OF    THE   PBESS. 

<,  From  the  many  favorable  notices  of  "  Smucker's  Life  of  Dr.  Kane  f 
\  and  othtsr  American-  Explorers,"  we  take  the  following  :  f 

1  Tlie  author  has  here  given  as  a  valuable  addition  to  American  Biographi-  ,'' 
/  eal  literature.  —  Godey'g  Lady's  Book. 

Aterse,  useful  and  interesting  work.  It  is  a  delightful  volume.  —  U.S.Jow.          !' 
J>        It  will  become  a  household  volume.  —  Chicago  Tribune.  'J 

'  The  portrait  of  Dr.  Kane  contained  in  this  volume  is  a  splendid  steel  en-  [> 
',  graving,  and  may  be  relied  upon  as  a  correct  likeness,  as  we  ourselvet  v 
;  have  frequently  seen  the  original,  and  find  the  resemblance  most  striking.  |< 
'j  —  Am.  Fret  Pi  tss,  Boston,  Pa. 

Worthy  of  a  place  on  any  centre-table,  or  on  the  shelves  of  any  library 
*,     —  Trent'm  Gazette 
!         For  family  libraries,  this  book  Is  Just  the  thing.  —  Arthur's  Magazine, 

J.  W.  BRADLEY,  Publisher, 

48  N.  Fourth  street,  Philadelphia 


J.    W.    BRADLEY'S   LIST    OF   PUBLICATIONS. 


i  mis  aito  lleasros 


WITH    FINE    COLORED    PLATES. 


Large  12mo.,  336  pages, 


$1.00 


CONTENTS 

Baiting  for  an  Alligator — Morning  among  the  Rocky  Mountains  —  £»• 
counter  with  Shoshonees — A  Grizzly  Bear — Fight  and  Terrible  Result 
— Fire  on  the  Mountains — Narrow  Escape — The  Beaver  Region — 
Trapping  Beaver — A  Journey  and  Hunt  through  New  Mexico — Start 
for  South  America — Hunting  in  the  Forests  of  Brazil — Hunting  on  the 
Pampas — A  Hunting  Expedition  into  the  Interior  of  Africa — Chase 
of  the  Rhinoceros — Chase  of  an  Elephant — The  Roar  of  the  Lion— 
Herds  of  Wild  Elephants — Lions  attacked  by  Bechuanas — Arrival 
In  the  Region  of  the  Tiger  and  the  Elephant — Our  first  Elephant  Huat 
in  India — A  Boa  Constrictor — A  Tiger — A  Lion — Terrible  Conflict — 
Elephant  Catching — Hunting  the  Tiger  with  Elephants — Crossing  the 
Pyrenees — Encounter  with  a  Bear — A  Pigeon  Hunt  on  the  Ohio— 
\Vild-Hog  Hunt  in  Texas— Hunting  the  Black-tailed  Deer. 


^^"  Agents  wanted  in  every  part  of  the    United  States  ana 
British  Provinces.     Address, 

J.  W.  BRADLEY,  Publisher, 

48  N.  Fourth  street,  Philadelphia. 


J.  W.  BRADLEY'S   LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS. 
"  To    the    Pure    all    things    are    Pure." 


WOMAN  AND  HER  DISEASES 

FROM 

THE  CBADLE  TO  THE  GEAYE: 

Adapted  exclusively  to  her  Instruction  in  the  Physiology  of 
her  System,  and  all  the  Diseases  of  her  Critical  Periods. 

BY  EDWARD  H.  DIXON,  M.D., 

alpel,"  Consulting  and  Operating  Surgeon,  autho 
f  the  Earl;  Decay  of  American  Women,"  ic.,  Ac., 
hysiciau  to  the  New  York  Deaf  and  Dumb  Asjluui 

[>        Sent  by  Mail  on  receipt  of  the  price,  -     -     -     -     -     $1.00 


Editor  of  "  The  Scalpel,"  Consulting  and  Operating  Surgeon,  author  of  a  Treatise 
the  "  Causes  of  the  Early  Decay  of  American  Women,"  ic.,  <tc.,  and  formerly 
Physician  to  the  New  York  Deaf  and  Dumb  Asylum. 


<J  NOTICES    OP    THE    PBESS. 

"WOMAN  AND  HER  DISEASES,  from  the  Cradle  to  the  Grave,  adapted  ex- 
'}  clusiveiy  to  her  Instruction  in  the  Physiology  of  her  System,"  etc.  By 
',-  Edward  H.  Dixon,  M.D.  This  work,  though  pertaining  to  subjects,  the 
',  discussion  of  which  has  hitherto  been  almost  exclusively  confined  to  the 
','  medical  profession,  contains  not  a  line  nor  a  word  calculated  to  awaken 
•,'  impure  emotion,  but  much  to  strengthen  purposes  of  virtue,  and  at  the 
,'  same  time  to  remove  the  ignorance  which  lies  at  the  foundation  of  the  pre- 
•]  Tailing  licentiousness.  It  has  received  the  highest  commendation  from 
!<  men  whose  opinions  have  great  weight  with  the  friends  of  morality  and 
f  religion. — New  York  Tribune. 

The  chapter  on  the  consequences  and  treatment  of  self-abuse,  In  one  of 
ij  the  most  earnest  appeals  we  have  ever  read,  and  we  believe  will  save 
;.'  thousands  from  an  untimely  grave.  That,  on  abortion,  entitles  Dr.  Dixon 
''  to  the  thanks  of  every  humane  person  in  the  community. — MercliaiUs' 
$  Ledger,  K.  Y. 

The  tt  anks  of  the  public  are  due  to  Dr.  Dixon,  both  for  the  matter  and 

the  manner  of  it.     Every  mother  should  read  it,  and  then  present  its  con- 
!j         tents  to  her  children. — Anylo-Amrrican. 

Dr   Dixon  has  lent  a  deep  iuterest  to  his  work,  and  is  doing  good  service 

by  its  publication. — Boston  Medical  and  Surgical  Journal. 

W«  are  sure  we  are  doing  a  public  benefit,  by  commending  to  universal 
p  notice  this  work,  imparting  as  it  does  a  vast  deal  of  information  of  vital 
',  Importance  to  every  one.  Medical  and  other  journals  of  the  highest  re- 
',•>  p'lte  in  this  country,  have  spoken  of  it  in  the  most  exalted  terms,  and 

earnestly  recommend  its  introduction  into  every  family. — Keu>  Bedford 

Evening  Bulletin.        • 


_     igents  wanted  in  every  part  of  the    United  States  ana 
British  Provinces.     Address, 

J.  W.  BRADLEY,  Publisher, 

48  N.  Fourth  street,  Philadelphia 


J.   W.    BBADLEY'S    LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS. 


THE 


COMPRISING 

Descriptions  of  the   different  Battles,   Sieges,   and 

other  events  of  the  War  of  Independence,  inter- 

spersed with  Characteristic  Anecdotes. 

Illustrated  with  numerous  Engravings,  and  a  fine  Mezzo- 
tint Frontispiece.  By  THOMAS  Y.  KHOADS.  Large 
12mo.,  336  pages.  Price  $1.00. 


OOONTTEISTTS. 


The  Sergeant  and  the  Indians. 

Burning  of  the  Gaspee. 

The  Great  Tea  Riot. 

The  First  Prayer  in  Congress 

Battle  of  Lexingtoa. 

Fight  at  Concord  Bridge. 

Capture  of  Ticonderoga. 

Battle  of  Bunker's  Hill. 

Attack  on  Quebec. 

Attack  on  Sullivan's  Island. 

The  Declaration  of  Independence. 

Finnnosd  of  Washington. 

Capture  of  General  Lee. 

Captuia  of  General  Prescott. 

General  Prescott  Whipped. 

Battle  of  Trenton. 

Battle  of  Princeton. 

General  La  Fayette. 

Battle  of  Brandy  wine. 

Battle  of  Germantown. 

Battle  of  Red  Bank 


Burgoyne's    Invasion  —  Battle   of 

Bennington. 

Heroic  Exploit  of  Peter  Francisco. 
Andrew  Jackson. 
Siege  of  Yorktown — Surrender  of 

Cornwallis. 
George  Rogers  Clarke. 
Death  of  Captain  Biddle. 
Patriotism  of  Mother  Bailey. 
The  Dutchman  and  the  Rake. 
Simon  Keuton. 
The  Murder  of  Miss  McCrea. 
Massacre  at  Wyoming. 
Treason  of  Arnold. 
Patriotism  of  Elizabeth  Zane 
Stony  Point. 
John  Paul  Jones. 
Battle  of  King's  Mountain. 
Burning  of  Colonel  Crawford. 
Battle  of  the  Cowpens. 
Baron  Steuben. 
Mrs.  Bozarth. 


'  Agents  wanted  in  every  part  of  the    United  States  and 
British  Provinces,     Address, 

J.  W.  BRADLEY,  Publisher, 

48  N.  Fourth  street,  Philadelphia 


J.    W.    BRADLEY'S    LIST    OF    PUBLICATIONS. 


Cdkfira  of  Sketches. 


BY  MISS  V.  F.  TOWNSEND. 

,• 

Large  12mo.,  with  fine  steel   Portrait   of   the  Author.    !' 
Bound  in  cloth,  $1.00.  \ 


MnrieL 

To  Arthur,  Asleep. 

The  Memory  Bells. 

Mend  the  Breeches. 

The  Sunshine  after  the  Bain. 

My  Picture. 

Little  Mercy  is  Dead. 

The  Old  Letters. 

The  Fountain  very  Far  Down. 

The  Rain  in  the  Afternoon. 

The  Blossom  in  the  Wilderness. 

The  Mistake. 

October. 

Twice  Loving. 

The  Old  Mirror. 


The  Country  Graveyard. 

Now. 

The  Door  in  the  Heart. 

My  Step-Mother. 

The  Broken  Threat. 

Glimpses  Inside  the  Cars. 

The  Old  Stove. 

The  Old  Rug. 

The  "  Making-Up." 

Next  to  Me. 

"Only  a  Dollar." 

The  Temptation  and  the  Trinmpn. 

Extracts  from  a  Valedictory  Poem. 

December. 


NOTICES    OF    THE   PRESS. 

We  might  say  many  things  in  favor  of  this  delightful  publication,  bnt 
we  deem  it  unnecessary.  Husbands  should  buy  it  for  their  wives',  loveri 
ibould  buy  it  for  their  sweethearts,  friends  should  buy  it  for  their  friendi 
— a  prettier  or  more  entertaining  gift  could  not  be  given — and  everybody 
should  buy  it  for  themselves.  It  ought  to  be  circulated  throughout  the 
land.  It  carries  sunshine  wherever  it  goes.  One  such  book  is  worth 
more  than  all  the  "yellow-covered  trash"  ever  published.— Godey'a 
Lady's  Book. 


Agents  wanted  in  every  part  of  the   United  States  and 
British  Provinces.     Address, 

J.  W.  BRADLEY,  Publisher, 

48  N.  Fourth  street,  Philadelphia 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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